r 

/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

California  State  Library 


>ks 


>  ier- 

son  IIIJUI'C  nr  IJtl I  tu  re  earn  any  uwn.  utvr>.<  ii  i,«i»i  ,,^,  Li 
brary,  he  shall  forfeit  and  pay  to  the  Librarian,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Library,  three  times  the  value  thereof; 
and  before  the  Controller  shall  issue  his  warrant  in  favor 
of  any  member  or  officer  of  the  Legislature,  or  of  this 
Slate,  for  his  per  diem,  allowance,  or  salary,  he  shall  be 
satisfied  that  such  member  or  officer  has  returned  all 
books  taken  out  of  the  Library  by  him,  and  has  settled 
all  accounts  for  injuring  such  books  or  otherwise. 

SKC.  15.  JJooks  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  by  the 
members  of  the  Legislature  anil  its  officers  during  the 
session  of  the  same,  and  at  any  1  hue  by  the  Governor  and 
the  officers  of  the  Executive  Department  of  this  State, 
who  are  required  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  seat  of 
government,  the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  At 
torney-General  ancj  the  Trustees  of  the  Library. 


HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS 


BY  W.  M.  L.  JAY 

Author  of  "  Shiloh,"  etc. 


| 


"Sin  will  pluck  on  sin." 

King  Richard  III. 


NEW    YORK 
E.    P.    DTJTTON    &    COMPANY,    PUBLISHERS 

713    BROADWAY 

1874 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PS 
33  £H 

k. 


PKEFAOE. 


IN  sending  forth  another  book  belonging  to  the  class 
known  as  religious  novels,  the  author  is  moved  to  say  a 
word  to  the  critics  who  received  a  former  one  with  so 
pleasant  a  mixture  of  pi'aise  and  deprecation.  As  one  of 
them  frankly  explained,  "  they  like  a  pill  none  the  better 
for  being  sugar-coated."  It  is  not  necessary  to  remind 
them  that  there  may  be  younger  (and  possibly  older)  peo 
ple  who  do.  It  is  more  to  the  point  to  state  that  persons 
to  whom  religion  is  a  pill — a  bitter,  nauseous  compound, 
to  be  bolted  in  sickness,  and  kept  out  of  sight  in  health — 
are  not  the  persons  for  whom  the  author  writes. 

There,  is  another  class  of  objectors.  They  talk  sol 
emnly  of  Art  and  its  canons ;  they  make  a  religion  of  it, 
having  little  other.  One  of  these  remarks,  that  "  a  tract 
in  the  hands  of  the  Venus  di  Medici  would  be  an  imper 
tinence."  I  quite  agree  with  him.  But  why  need  he 
ignore  the  fact  that  the  Venus  is  also  the  outcome  of  a 
religion?  To  the  ancient  sculptoi*,  it  was  a  goddess,  not  a^-' 
woman,  that  grew  under  his  hands ;  it  was  Devotion,  work 
ing  together  with  Genius,  that  produced  the  two  or  three  <? 
statues  which  the  world  agrees  to  admire.  So  the  few 
great  poems  of  the  world  are  religious  poems.  Why,  then, 
should  not  the  great  novel  of  the  world  be  a  religious 
novel  ?  Some  day,  be  sure,  a  genius  sweeter  than  Haw 
thorne's,  more  genial  than  Dickens',  and  subtler  than 


832707 


IV  PREFACE. 

Thackeray's,  will  arise  to  give  it  to  us.  Let  me  humbly 
help  to  prepare  the  way  for  him!  Meanwhile,  be  it  also 
understood  that  the  persons  to  whom  Art  is  a  sufficing  end, 
instead  of  a  noble  means,  are  not  the  persons  for  whom  I 
write. 

I  do  write  for  the  "gentle  reader"  who  enjoys  religion 
in  novels,  as  elsewhere.  Be  thus  much  said  for  his  liking, 
even  from  the  art  side.  There  are  two  classes  of  novels — 
the  descriptive  and  the  analytical ;  one  pictures  real  life, 
the  other  passions  and  motives.  Religion  has  its  rightful 
place  in  both,  because  it  is  an  important  part  of  real  life, 
and  controls  both  passions  and  motives.  Finally  (for  the 
subject  is  much  too  wide  for  a  preface),  the  modern  novel 
being  so  potent  a  power, — for  evil  on  the  one  hand,  for 
social  and  civil  reform  on  the  other, — it  is  fair  to  suppose 
that  it  may  do  good  service  for  religion. 

In  conclusion,  I  have  to  make  two  acknowledgments. 
The  first  to  an  unknown  coadjutor,  a  hand  that  is  doubt 
less  mouldering  into  dust.  Some  years  ago,  a  yellow,  time- 
worn  manuscript,  purporting  to  be  a  veritable  family  his 
tory,  fell  into  my  hands.  I  am  indebted  to  it  for  the  main 
outline  of  my  story.  The  second  is  to  Miss  FREEBORNE, 
— the  only  sculptor  of  our  day,  so  far  as  I  know,  who  has 
consecrated  her  genius  to  Christian  Art.  From  her  studio 
I  have  quietly  abstracted  the  sculpture  which  lends  its 
Avhite  grace  to  these  pages.  I  should  also  have  seized 
upon  the  slender  figure  of  her  St.  Agnes,  and  the  bowed 
head  of  her  Martyr,  had  they  been  available  to  my 
purpose. 

NEW  YORK,  July,  1874. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION,  7 

PART  FIRST. 

A   WAY   THAT   SEEMETH   EIGHT. 

I. — Proverbs  and  the  Interpretation,  23 

II. — Studying  to  Answer,     ------  35 

III.— Pattern  of  Old  Fidelity,                                               -  47 

IV.— A  Goodly  Heritage,      -         -        -  56 

V.— Waste  Places,  -                                                     -        -  67 

VI.— The  Day  of  Temptation,        -        -  77 

VII.— A  Bitter  Draught,    -        -  88 

VIII. — As  a  Dream  when  one  Awaketh,  -        -        -        -  96 

IX.— The  Blot  Cleaves, 104 

PART  SECOND. 

THE   FRUIT   OF   THE   WAY. 

I.— Through  a  Mist,  115 

II. — Strengthened  out  of  Zion,        -                  -  124 

III. — Seeing,  but  Understanding  Not,  -  131 

IV.— Patient  Waiting,       -  142 

V. — Under  the  Oaks,  - 154 

VI.— Of  Clay,  - 163 

VII.— Hidden  Riches, 174 

VIII._The  Wind  Changes,                   185 

IX.— The  First  Links  of  a  Chuin,  103 

X.— Feeling  His  Way,     -                                                     -  201 

XI.— Sleepless  Nights  Appointed,  212 

XII.— A  Consultation,                                                      -         -  217 

XIII.— Dinner-Table  Talk, 227 


V1  CONTENTS. 

PART  THIRD. 

THE   IN-GATHERING. 

I. — Unfoldings,      ------..  233 

II. — The  Foundations  Fail,           -        -        -        -        .  241 

III. — Building  Anew,        -----__  255 

IV. — A  Sermon,    -----_..  264 

V. — Partings,           -        -        -        -        -'-        -        .  271 

VI.— With  a  Double  Heart, 281 

VII. — Overburdened,          .......  289 

VIII. — A  Business  Letter,        ----..  300 

IX. — Smoother  Than  Butter,     ------  308 

X. — A  Wicked  Device,        -        -        -        -        -        -  315 

XL— A  Clue, 323 

XII. — Too  Late,      --- 339 

XIII. — Escaped,  -- 340 

XIV.— The  Way  Stopped,        ------  347 


PART  FOURTH. 

A  NEW   FIELD. 

I. — Alive  i:i  Famine,      -----..  355 

II. — New  Acquaintances,     ------  3(54 

III. — Farview,  -        ---        -        -        -        -        -        -  369 

IV. — A  Word  i  i  Due  Season,         -----  379 

V. — Intercepted,      -------.  333 

VI. — An  Aimless  Stroll, 398 

VII. — Ordered  Steps,          -        -        -        -        -        -  407 

VIII.— Though  He  Slay,  415 

IX.— Mistakes,                    424 

X.— Like  a  Thief  in  the  Night, 433 

XL— After  Many  Days, 440 


PART  FIFTH. 

A   BETTER   HARVEST. 

I. — A  Cloud  for  a  Covering,        -----  449 

II.— Swift  Feet, 459 

III.— Fatality  or  Temptation, 467 

IV.— Blind, 474 

V. — More  Mystery, 481 

VI.— A  Clue, 489 

VII.— The  Set  Time,       -        -  495 

VIII. —Gift  and  Giver, 502 

IX.— Faithful  unto  Death, 513 


HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

beautiful  was  the  long  vista  of  the  elm-arched 
V  street.  So  irresistibly  did  it  woo  the  eye  to  linger 
among  its  gray  columns  and  green  arches,  or  wander 
adown  its  fair,  temple-like  perspective  to  the  hazy  vanishing 
point,  that  the  wayfarer  might  easily  forget  to  observe  what 
sort  of  dwellings  were  ranged  along  its  sides.  Nor  did 
they  seek  to  force  themselves  upon  his  notice.  They  were 
all  plain,  substantial  structures,  with  no  obtrusive  marks  of 
ostentation  or  of  meanness  about  them ;  and  they  all  stood 
a  little  back  from  the  street,  leaving  room  for  a  trim  grass- 
plot,  or  a  thicket  of  flowering  shrubs,  between  them  and  the 
passer-by.  They  would  impress  him,  collectively,  as  gen 
uine,  well-to-do  homes,  free  alike  from  the  struggles  of 
poverty  and  the  temptations  of  wealth,  without  troubling 
him  to  recognize  them  individually,  or  diverting  his  gaze 
from  the  over-arching  elms  that  were  so  much  better  worth 
his  looking  at. 

Such,  at  least,  would  be  the  fact,  until  he  came  to  a 
certain  corner ;  where  a  large  square  structure  of  stuccoed 
brick,  coming  boldly  forward  to  the  pavement,  and  plant 
ing  its  heavy  steps  thereon,  would  be  sure  to  arrest  his 
glance,  and,  perhaps,  faintly  stir  his  curiosity.  It  was  too 
large  for  a  private  building,  and  too  unpretending  for  a 
public  one, — what  was  it?  If  he  had  put  the  inquiry  into 


8  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

audible  words,  he  would  have  been  told  that  it  was  the 
Medical  College.  And  if  his  interlocutor  had  chanced  to 
be  a  white-haired,  genial-faced  old  man,  long  ago  flung 
aside  from  the  stream  of  active  life,  and,  consequently,  with 
time  on  his  hands  for  a  little  chat  with  a  stranger, — he 
would,  doubtless,  have  woven  into  his  answer  the  popular 
witticism ; — 

"Everything  here,  sir,  is  arranged  just  as  it  should  be. 
The  divinity  school  is  on  the  road  to  the  poorhouse ;  the 
law-school  adjoins  the  jail;  and  the  medical  college — this 
building  before  you,  sir — is  hard  by  the  cemetery  ; — you 
can  see  the  monuments  rising  above  the  hedge  yonder." 

But  the  young  man  now  coming  up  the  street,  through 
the  pleasant  play  of  sunshine  and  shadow  beneath  the  elms, 
would  neither  have  asked  the  question,  nor  smiled  at  the 
answer.  He  knew  the  stuccoed  building  well,  as  a  three 
years'  occupant  thereof  must  needs  do  ;  and  lie  had  heard 
and  repeated  the  witticism  too  many  times  to  leave  it  the 
faintest  sparkle.  It  Avas  doubtful,  too,  whether  he  gave  a 
thought  to  the  loveliness  of  the  elm-arched  vista  that 
stretched  before  him, — partly  by  reason  of  his  familiarity 
therewith,  partly  on  account  of  a  preoccupied  mind,  and 
still  more,  perhaps,  because  his  bright,  brisk,  energetic 
temperament  was  not  of  the  sort  which  is  quickest  to  feel 
the  subtile  charm,  and  recognize  the  delicate  outline,  of  the 
spirit  of  beauty.  He  came  on  rapidly,  with  an  elastic  step 
and  a  cheery  whistle,  and,  as  he  neared  the  college,  he  cast 
a  quick  glance  at  one  of  its  upper  windows.  AVhat  he  saw 
there  would  have  been  a  pretty  enough  sight  to  most  people, 
— merely  a  tiny  brown  bird  hopping  to  and  fro  on  the  win 
dow-sill,  and  turning  its  small  head  briskly  from  side  to  side 
in  its  search  for  infinitesimal  crumbs, — but  it  brought  a 
shadow  to  his  broad,  frank  brow. 

"  Not  yet  up,"  he  muttered,  "  or  that  wren  wouldn't  be 
trotting  up  and  down  there  so  complacently !  To  be  sure, 
lie  may  have  gone  out,  but  it  isn't  likely." 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

/ 

Neither  for  the  look  nor  the  thought  did  he  pause,  but 
strode  straight  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  his  firm  tread 
resounding  loudly  through  the  empty,  uncarpeted  halls, 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  front  room.  There  was  no 
response.  He  knocked  again,  with  a  somewhat  impatient 
hand,  tried  the  door  and  found  it  locked,  waited  a  moment, 
beat  a  third  emphatic  rat-tat-too  upon  the  panel,  without 
eliciting  other  reply  than  a  faint  and  dreary  echo  from  the 
attic  above ;  and,  finally,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked 
down-stairs.  At  the  head  of  the  second  flight,  a  thought 
seemed  to  strike  him  ;  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  he 
turned  and  knocked  at  a  door  close  at  hand.  Scarcely 
waiting  for  the  prompt  "  Come  in  !  "  he  opened  it,  with  the 
question, — "  Have  you  seen  Arling  this  morning  ?  " 

The  occupant  of  the  room  was  a  broad-shouldered 
young  man,  sitting  at  a  table  covered  with  books  and 
papers,  and  deeply  absorbed  in  study.  He  only  half 
turned  his  head,  showing  a  regular,  clear-cut  profile,  as  he 
answered, — 

"  No.  I  left  him  so  late  last  night  that  I  overslept  this 
morning,  and  have  thought  of  nothing  but  making  up  lost 
time.  And  really,  Trubie,  a  man  might  be  excused  for  for 
getting  his  best  friend — if  he  had  one — in  examination 
week. '  But,  is  Ai'ling  any  worse  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  should  like  to  know,  Roath,"  returned 
Trubie,  planting  himself  a  little  more  firmly  on  the  thres 
hold,  but  taking  no  notice  of  the  chair  that  the  other 
had  carelessly  pushed  toward  him.  "At  any  rate,  he's 
out." 

Roath  started,  and  turned  completely  round,  giving  a 
view  of  a  square-featured,  somewhat  moody,  but  still 
handsome,  face.  "  Out ! "  he  repeated,  looking  both 
amazed  and  startled. 

"  So  it  would  seem.  The  door  is  locked,  and  I  rapped 
and  rattled  loud  enough  to  wake  the  dead." 

"  Oh,"  said  Roath,  with  a  prolonged  falling  inflection. 
1* 


10  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

And  after  a  moment's  consideration,  lie  turned  back  to  his 
books,  as  if  there  were  no  more  to  be  said. 

Trubie  lingered.  Not,  evidently,  from  any  special 
liking  for  Roath's  society,  but  because  he  was  undecided 
what  to  do  next.  "  I  don't  understand  it,  Koath,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  You  know  Arling  was  to  have  kept  his  room  to 
day,  by  way  of  gaining  strength,  and  guarding  against 
a  relapse.  And  we  were  to  have  gone  over  '  Barnes ' 
together  this  morning,  so  as  to  be  all  primed  for  Professor 
Beers  to-morrow.  What  can  he  have  done  with  him 
self?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Roath,  absently,  with  his  eyes  on  his 
book,  "  some  of  the  others  may  have  seen  him." 

Trubie  took  the  hint — if  such  it  was  meant  to  be — and 
withdrew.  He  spent  the  next  half  hour  in  knocking  at 
sundry  doors,  and  repeating,  with  slight  variation,  the 
questions  and  remarks  wherewith  he  had  favored  Roath. 
No  one  had  seen  Arling;  no  one  knew  anything  about 
him.  All  seemed  surprised  to  learn  that  he  had  gone  out ; 
but  all  were  laboriously  cramming  for  the  examinations  in 
progress,  and  the  surprise  made  but  a  faint  and  transient 
ripple  on  the  sui'face  of  their  troubled  minds.  Trubie's 
persistency  impressed  them  much  moi-e  strongly ;  they  won 
dered  that  he  had  leisure  to  bestow  upon  any  anxiety  not 
connected  with  those  dreaded  examinations,  any  fear  save 
that  of  failing  to  secure  the  right  to  sign  himself,  "  Frank 
Trubie,  M.D." 

Nor — to  represent  him  fairly — was  the  young  man  him 
self  wholly  insensible  of  his  absurdity.  "  Well ! "  said  he, 
at  last,  "  I  can't  afford  to  spend  my  morning  in  this  way. 
I  must  go  back  to  my  room,  and  set  to  work.  When 
Ai'ling  comes  in,  tell  him  I've  been  here."  And  away  lie 
went  through  the  dancing  elm-shadows,  more  quickly  than 
he  had  come. 

Two  hours  passed.  Then  Roath  closed  his  books,  gath 
ered  up  his  papers,  and  took  his  way  to  the  examination 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

room,  amid  the  groups  of  assembling  students.  Many 
eyes  followed  him,  some  with  admiration,  some  with  envy, 
— few  or  none,  it  was  plain  to  see,  Avith  affection. 

"  No  question  but  that  he'll  pass  !  "  said  one.  "  He's 
all  brain, — I'd  be  content  with  half  as  much." 

"  And  his  memory  !  "  exclaimed  another.  "  It  appears 
to  be  constructed  on  the  principle  of  a  rat-trap ;  ingress  is 
easy,  egress — not  provided  for !  " 

"  No  one  can  keep  step  with  him  but  Arling,"  remarked 
a  third ;  "  if  he  gets  well  enough,  there  will  be  a  close  race 
between  them." 

"  I  bet  on  Arling,"  said  a  fourth, — a  somewhat  slender 
young  man,  with  an  easy,  almost  careless  air,  but  a  thought 
ful  face, — Mark  Tracey  by  name. 

"Eh  !  why?"  asked  the  first  speaker. 

"  Because,  as  you  said  just  now,  Roath  is  all  brain. 
Whereas  Arling,  while  he  does  not  want  for  brain,  has  also 
a  heart  and  a  conscience.  And  in  medicine,  as  in  every 
thing  else,  that  wonderful  trio  are  too  strong  for  brain 
alone." 

"  Moralizing,  as  usual,"  returned  the  other  with  a  light 
laugh. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  plain  common-sense.  The  history 
of  the  world  shows  it.  Perhaps  there  is  no  better  type  of 
pure  intellect  than  Satan.  And  Michael  the  archangel 
does  very  well  for  a  representative  of  love,  duty,  and  intel 
lect,  combined.  You  remember  which  beat  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  possible,  Tracey,  that  you  believe  that 
fable  !  " 

"  Grant  that  it  is  a  fable,"  replied  Tracey,  lifting  his 
eyebrows; — "  it  nevertheless  stands  for  the  concrete  Avis- 
dom  of  the  ages  Avhich  preceded  it." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  on  the  threshold  of  the 
examination  room,  and,  of  necessity,  closed  the  discussion. 

Roath's  examination,  on  this  day,  did  not  disappoint 
the  general  expectation.  Although  somcAvhat  paler  than 


12  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

ordinary,  he  was  thoroughly  self-possessed;  his  answers 
were  clear  and  to  the  point ;  not  once  did  his  memory 
play  him  false ;  scarcely  once  did  he  hesitate  for  a  word. 
He  gave  evidence  not  only  of  close  study,  but  of  careful 
analysis,  and  profound,  sagacious  thought.  But  he  looked 
worn  when  it  was  over,  as  if  the  mental  strain  had  been 
severe  ;  and  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  the  comments  and 
congratulations  showered  upon  him. 

Into  the  midst  of  these  burst  Trubie,  with  the  old 
question,  "Have  you  seen  anything  of  Arling  ? "  and 
hardly  waiting  for  the  general  "  No  "  which  answered  it, 
upstairs  he  rushed,  three  steps  at  a  time,  to  the  room  of 
his  friend.  The  stream  of  talk  had  scarcely  resumed  its 
flow,  ere  he  was  back  again,  with  a  hurried  step,  and  a  per 
turbed  face. 

"  It's  odd  about  Arling,"  he  began,  abruptly.  "  I  can't 
get  any  answer,  and  there's  nothing  stirring  in  the  room. 
But  I  looked  into  the  keyhole,  and  the  key  is  certainly 
inside." 

Some  few  of  the  students,  startled  by  his  words,  and 
the  deep  gravity  of  his  look,  gathered  around  him  to  dis 
cuss  the  matter,  when  a  stout,  gray-haired  professor  came 
ovit  from  the  examination  room. 

"  Good  day,  Mr.  Trubie,"  said  he,  as  he  passed  the 
group.  "  I  hope  your  patient  is  doing  well." 

"  I — I  don't  know,  sir,"  faltered  Trubie ;  "  I  have  not 
seen  him  since  yesterday,  at  dusk.  And  he  is  unaccount 
ably  missing  this  morning ; — at  least,  I  thought  he  must  be 
out  when  I  went  to  his  room,  at  eight  o'clock,  and  couldn't 
get  in.  But  I  have  just  been  up  again,  and — and  the  door 
is  certainly  locked  on  the  inside." 

Being  already  in  possession  of  the  main  facts  of  the 
case, — namely,  that  Alec  Arling,  one  of  the  class  of  med 
ical  students  now  undergoing  examination  for  their  degree, 
had  been  suffering  for  some  days  from  severe  and  increasing 
intestinal  trouble,  and  had  been  advised  by  the  faculty  to 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

keep  hjs  room  for  a  day  or  two,  under  the  care  of  his 
friend,  Frank  Trubie  ; — the  professor  now,  by  means  of  a 
few  rapid  questions,  elicited  the  additional  facts,  that  Tru 
bie  had  been  suddenly  called  away,  on  the  previous  evening, 
by  family  affliction,  to  his  home  in  a  near  suburb,  and  had 
spent  the  night  there,  and  that  Edmund  Roath,  who  had 
volunteered  to  keep  a  little  watch  over  the  sick-room  during 
his  absence,  had  remained  with  Arling  till  past  midnight, 
engaged  in  comparing  notes  of  clinical  lectures,  and  in 
psychological  talk  (with  which  matters  Arling  would  busy 
himself,  in  spite  of  remonstrance),  and  had  then  left  him, 
recommending  him  to  go  to  sleep  at  once,  and  had  heard 
the  door  duly  locked  on  his  exit.  Roath  further  stated 
that,  in  consequence  of  this  protracted  sitting,  and  previous 
hard  work,  he  had  slept  late  this  morning ;  and,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  Trubie,  according  to  promise,  was  already 
back  at  his  post,  he  had  seated  himself  at  his  books,  imme 
diately  upon  rising.  Very  shortly  after,  Trubie  had  ap 
peared,  and  informed  him  that  Arling  had  gone  out, 
whereat  he  had  been  considerably  surprised, — not  that  the 
young  man  was  unable  to  leave  his  room,  but  because  it 
was  inexpedient  to  do  so.  Nevertheless,  he  frankly  ac 
knowledged  that  his  mind  was  too  much  preoccupied  to 
give  more  than  a  passing  thought  to  the  matter,  especially 
as  he  knew  well  that  any  remissness  on  his  part  was  sure  to 
be  amply  atoned  for  by  Trubie, — he  and  Arling  being,  as 
everybody  knew,  the  Damon  and  Pythias  of  the  class. 

The  professor  was  a  man  of  few  words,  quick  conclu 
sions,  and  prompt  action.  "  There  is  but  one  way  of  getting 
at  the  bottom  of  the  matter,"  said  he,  at  the  end  of  this 
rapid  statement.  "  Let  somebody  bring  a  crowbar,  and 
pry  open  the  door." 

Scarce  sooner  said  than  done.  The  door  yielded  easily 
to  the  rude  implement,  in  Trubie's  impetuous  hands,  and 
was  followed  by  a  rush  of  the  assembled  students  toward 
the  opening, — though,  even  in  this  moment  of  eager  curi- 


14  HOLDEN  WITH  TUB  CORDS. 

osity,  the  instinct  of  subordination  allowed  the  professor  to 
pass  in  first.  He  went  straight  to  the  bed,  where  was  seen 
a  human  form,  lying  on  its  side,  in  an  easy  attitude  of  slum 
ber.  He  bent  for  a  moment  above  this  form,  while  a  sudden 
silence  fell  upon  the  startled  spectators, — he  touched  the 
brow,  lifted  the  hand,  and  then,  turning  slowly  round,  said, 
in  deep,  serious  tones ; — 

"He  is  dead." 

Trubie  let  fall  the  crowbar,  darted  forward,  and  caught 
the  hand  of  his  dead  friend,  with  a  kind  of  indignant  in 
credulity.  But  the  icy  touch,  the  marble  pallor,  the  life 
less  weight,  brought  instant  conviction.  He  stood  as  if 
stunned. 

The  professor  had  turned  from  the  bed  to  the  table, 
where  a  glass,  a  spoon,  and  four  or  five  phials,  stood  within 
easy  reach  of  the  dead  man's  hand.  He  held  the  spoon  to 
his  nostrils,  and  then  examined  the  phials,  holding  them  up 
to  the  light.  In  one,  labelled  "  Mag.  Sol.  Morph.,"  he 
seemed  to  find  what  lie  sought. 

"  Mr.  Trubie,"  said  he,  turning  round,  with  the  open 
phial  in  his  hand,  "  did  your  friend  ever  say  anything  to 
you,  that  indicated  a  disposition  to  suicide  ?  " 

The  question  roused  the  young  man  from  his  stupor, 
although  it  was  a  moment  or  two  ere  he  seemed  to  compre 
hend  its  purport  fully.  "Never,  sir !  "  he  exclaimed,  indig 
nantly,  a  hot  flush  rising  to  his  brow, — "  Alec  Arling  would 
have  scorned  to  do  such  a  thing !  He  was  neither  a  fool 
nor  a  coward,  sir !  Besides,  there  was  no  earthly  reason 
why  he  should  do  it." 

The  professor  shook  his  head.  "  He  seems  to  have  done 
it,  nevertheless,"  said  he,  thoughtfully.  "  To  be  sure,"  he 
added,  after  a  moment,  "  it  is  barely  possible  that  he  took 
it  by  mistake." 

"  Most  likely,  that  is  the  real  state  of  the  case,"  re 
marked  Roath,  who  was  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  calmly  and  gravely  observant  of  the  scene. 


INTRODUCTION.  Iff 

In  temperaments  like  Trubie's,  the  transition  from  grief 
to  anger  is  often  curiously  direct  ;  the  one  is  the  natural 
outlet  of  the  other ;  and  in  this  instance,  the  sound  of 
Roath's  voice  seemed  to  afford  the  bereaved  and  horrified 
young  man  the  object  of  indignation  that  he  so  sorely 
needed.  Springing  quickly  forward,  and  clenching  his  fist, 
he  confronted  the  speaker  with  a  convulsive  rage  and 
excitement  in  strong  contrast  with  Roath's  grave  com 
posure. 

"  You  know  better  !  "  he  shouted.  "  It  was  neither  a 
suicide  nor  a  mistake.  You  killed  him  !  " 

Roath  gave  a  violent  start,  and  seemed  about  to  speak, 
but  his  lips  only  trembled  nervously.  He  was  evidently 
confounded,  almost  bewildered,  by  the  suddenness  and 
fierceness  of  the  accusation. 

Trubie  went  on  with  scarce  a  moment's  pause,  and  with 
still  hotter  indignation,  "You  were  last  in  his  room — 
you  acknowledge  it.  And  you  hated  him." 

Roath  had  regained  his  self-command, — which,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  had  but  for  an  instant  lost.  "  If  you  were  not 
beside  yourself  with  grief,"  said  he,  coldly,  "  there  could 
be  but  one  answer  to  such  a  charge  as  that.  As  it  is — " 

"  '  As  it  is,'  I  repeat  it,"  interrupted  Trubie,  with  bitter 
scorn.  "  I  repeat  it,  and  am  ready  to  maintain  it,  always 
— anywhere — anyhow  !  " 

Roath  drew  himself  up.  "I,  too,  am  ready," — he 
began,  haughtily,  but  the  professor  interposed.  "  Mr. 
Roath,"  said  he,  with  dignity,  "  I  command  you  to  be 
silent.  Mr.  Trubie," — laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  agitated  young  man,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  grave 
rebuke, — "much  may  be  forgiven  to  the  first  excitement 
of  sorrow  and  horror,  but  this  is  going  too  far.  Such  an 
accusation  is  not  to  be  made  lightly." 

"  Lightly  !  "  repeated  the  frantic  Trubie, — "  he  hated 
Alec,  I  tell  you  !  He  couldn't  forgive  him  for  rivalling  him 
— aye,  and  beating  him,  too — everywhere ;  in  scholar- 


16  II OLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

ship,  in  popularity,  in  " — he  hesitated  for  an  instant, — "  in 
love." 

Roath's  face  grew  dark  ;  a  frown  traced  a  deep,  vertical 
line  between  his  brows ;  he  set  his  teeth,  and  made  a  quick 
stride  forward.  But  a  dozen  hands  seized  him,  a  dozen 
others  laid  hold  of  Trubie,  and  both  were  half  forced,  half 
led  away  to  their  rooms ;  while  the  faculty  of  the  college, 
hastily  called  together,  gathered  around  the  corpse,  to  ex 
amine  more  minutely  into  the  cause  of  death. 

A  coroner's  jury  was  duly  summoned.  It  examined  the 
body,  weighed  the  evidence,  and  being  about  equally 
divided  in  regard  to  the  question  of  suicide,  finally  agreed 
upon  "  Accidental  .Death  by  Poison,"  as,  upon  the  whole, 
the  safer  and  less  objectionable  verdict.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  good  reason  to  suspect  murder,  nor  any  ground  what 
ever  for  implicating  Roath,  or  anybody  else,  as  a  perpetra 
tor  thereof. 

Trubie,  to  be  sure,  persisted  in  his  accusation ;  but  it 
was  with  a  vehemence  and  a  dogmatism  so  unlike  his 
wonted  careless  good  nature,  as  to  suggest  the  idea  that 
his  mind  had  been  temporarily  thrown  off  its  balance  by 
the  shock  of  his  friend's  death.  This  idea  gained  color 
from  the  fact  that  all  which  he  could  offer,  in  support  of 
so  grave  a  charge,  was  the  statement  that  he  had  long 
seen  or  suspected,  in  Roath  a  secret  hatred  of  Arling,  and 
a  willingness  to  do  him  covert  mischief.  He  had  even 
mentioned  the  suspicion  to  his  friend;  but  Arling — being 
himself  of  the  most  candid  and  generous,  as  well  as  unsus 
pecting  temper,  unable  to  conceive  of  any  but  an  open, 
honorable  enemy — had  refused  to  entertain  it  for  a  moment. 
Trubie  also  solemnly  affirmed  that  his  passionate  accusation 
of  Roath,  by  the  side  of  the  newly-discovered  corpse,  was 
the  involuntary  result  of  an  intuition  so  sudden,  so  clear, 
and  so  powerful,  that,  though  little  given  to  look  for  super 
natural  agencies  in  human  affairs,  he  could  not  rid  himself 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

of  the  conviction  that  it  was  the  direct  inspiration  of  his 
dead  friend.  But  it  may  readily  be  imagined  how  much 
weight  a  statement  of  this  sort  was  likely  to  have  with 
men  of  plain  minds  and  stui'dy  understanding,  searching 
among  the  external  phenomena  of  the  event  for  grounds 
upon  which  to  base  a  reasonable  verdict. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  theory  of  accidental  poisoning 
was  supported,  negatively,  by  the  lack  of  apparent  cause 
for  self-destruction  ;  and  positively,  by  the  fact  that  on  the 
dead  man's  table,  side  by  side  with  the  potent  narcotic  be 
fore  mentioned,  stood  a  phial  of  exactly  the  same  size,  and 
with  equally  colorless  contents.  Of  this  Arling  had  been 
accustomed  to  take  two  or  thi'ee  spoonfuls,  mixed  with  a 
few  drops  of  a  third  preparation  of  exceeding  bitter  flavor. 
A  careless  hand  might  have  mistaken  the  one  phial  for  the 
other.  The  taste  of  the  morphine,  so  swallowed,  would  be 
much  disguised ;  while  the  dose  was  sufficient,  under  the 
cii'cumstanees,  to  produce  death.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore, 
that  the  verdict  rendered  was  the  only  one  upon  which  a 
coroner's  jury  could  well  have  been  expected  to  agree. 

The  body  was  next  solemnly  laid  in  a  vault,  to  await 
the  disposal  of  the  parents,  who  lived  in  a  western  state ; 
and  the  widening  circles  of  excitement,  horror,  curiosity, 
and  regret,  of  which  it  had  been  the  unconscious  centre, 
rapidly  subsided,  or  were  effaced  by  the  growing  interests 
of  the  now  imminent  closing  examination. 

Even  Trubie,  though  he  flatly  refused  to  acquiesce  in 
the  coroner's  vei'dict,  was  forced  tacitly  to  accept  its  results. 
He  took  refuge  in  a  complete  personal  proscription  of  Ro^? ; 
he  neither  spoke  to  him  nor  looked  at  him ;  he  treated  him 
precisely  as  if  he  did  not  exist.  To  a  person  of  Roath's 
cold,  hard,  steely  temper,  and  obtuse  sensibilities,  this  de 
meanor  was,  perhaps,  the  most  tolerable  of  which  the  cir 
cumstances  admitted.  It  spared  him  the  necessity  of  being 
either  conciliatory  or  resentful ;  he  was  well  content  to 
ignore  Trubie  as  completely  as  Trubie  ignored  him. 


18  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

He  soon  found,  however,  that  he  had  greatly  underesti 
mated  the  moral  force  of  an  abhorrence  deeply  rooted  in 
immitigable  distrust  Though  largely  given  to  psycho 
logical  studies,  andiprofoundly  learned,  for  his  years,  in  the 
intricacies  and  tendencies  of  the  human  mind,  he  was  as 
tonished  to  find  how  soon  the  atmosphere  grew  heavy 
around  him,  how  quickly  Trubie's  dogged  dislike  commu 
nicated  itself,  more  or  less  strongly,  to  others;  while  the 
increased  cordiality  of  a  few,  though  kindly  intended  to 
offset  it,  only  served  to  point  him  out  more  clearly  as  one 
set  apart,  for  the  time,  from  life's  ordinary  course  and  level, 
by  the  force  of  an  unenviable,  if  undeserved,  notoriety. 
Not  that  he  ever  appeared  to  be  conscious  of  either  of  these 
manifestations,  or  of  their  ultimate  effect.  Nature  had 
given  him  a  moral  and  intellectual  fibre  so  tough,  and  he 
had  trained  himself  to  a  control  so  perfect,  that  the  keen 
est  observer  could  not  detect  the  least  vai'iation  from  his 
usual  composed,  concentrated,  somewhat  moody  demeanor. 
Whatever  of  suffering,  or  of  sin,  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  not  a  shadow  thereof  was  seen  in  his  face. 

It  might  well  be,  however,  that  he  was  glad  when  the 
examination  Avas  over,  his  degree  obtained,  and  himself  left 
free  to  depart  by  any  one  of  the  many  paths  which  life 
opened  before  him. 

Yet  he  was  in  no  suspicious  haste  to  be  gone.  His 
departure  was  fixed  for  an  early  hour  on  the  following 
morning.  Meanwhile,  at  dusk,  he  went  out  for  his  habitual 
solitary  stroll.  Never  had  he  invited  companionship,  and 
seldom  was  it  thrust  upon  him.  He  had  no  intimate  friend. 
Though  he  had  been  not  only  admired,  but  respected,  by 
many,  for  his  intellectual  gifts,  and  for  a  certain  firm,  even 
texture  of  character,  and  dispassionateness  of  judgment, 
that  often  looked  like  virtue,  whether  such  in  reality  or  not, 
he  was  beloved  by  none. 

Where  he  went,  what  he  thought,  is  not  to  the  pm-pose 
of  our  narrative.  His  walk  was  long,  however ;  he  did  not 


•    INTRODUCTION.  19 

return  until  dusk  had  deepened  into  clear  and  starry,  but 
moonless  night.  As  he  came  up  through  the  great,  dim 
elm-ai'ches,  with  their  solemn  resemblance  to  a  vast  cathe 
dral  nave,  a  strange  tremor  seized  him.  A  complete  sceptic 
in  regard  to  all  superstitions  and  forebodings,  he  yet  felt 
his  nerves  shaking  with  an  undefined  fear;  he  could  not 
rid  himself  of  the  impression  that  something  unprecedented 
and  sinister  was  at  that  moment  taking  place.  Reaching 
the  college,  he  ascended  the  steps  with  a  strange  mixture 
of  eagerness  and  reluctance;  and  immediately  became 
aware  of  a  subdued  but  excited  murmur  of  voices  in  the 
upper  hall.  At  the  same  moment,  Mai-k  Tracey  came  rush 
ing  down  the  stairs,  carpet-bag  in  hand. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  asked  Roath,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"I  don't  rightly  know,"  responded  Tracey,  hurriedly, — 
"I  am  so  late  for  the  train,  that  I  couldn't  stop  to  hear. 
Something  about  a  diamond  that  Trubie  has  found  in 
Arling's  glass — the  one  from  which  the  poor  fellow  drank 
his  death-draught,  I  believe.  Good-by ! "  And  away  he 
went. 

Had  he  waited  but  for  an  instant,  he  would  have  been 
startled  and  spellbound  by  the  deadly  whiteness  of  Roath's 
face.  Through  all  the  glimmering  indistinctness  of  the 
dimly-lighted  hall,  his  features  were  clearly  discernible,  by 
reason  of  that  marble  pallor.  For  the  moment,  he  seemed 
to  lose  sense  and  consciousness;  he  would  have  fallen, 
except  for  the  friendly  support  of  the  wall  against  which 
he  leaned. 

But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  The  man's  hard  energy 
of  character,  his  iron  will,  his  rigid  self-control,  though 
they  had  gone  down  before  the  suddenness  and  severity  of 
the  shock,  quickly  rose  again.  With  a  mighty  effort,  he 
rallied  his  broken  forces ;  back  into  his  face  came  the  look 
of  purpose,  the  sense  of  power,  the  sternness  of  immitigable 
resolve ;  and  this  with  so  rapid  and  almost  imperceptible  a 


20  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COliDS. 

change,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  granite  man  must  have* 
stood  there  from  the  first,  and  the  weak  man  not  at  all.  While 
Tracey's  receding  footsteps  still  echoed  faintly  from  with 
out,  going  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  the  city's  principal 
thoroughfare, — while  the  murmur  of  voices  from  above 
was  still  at  its  eager,  wondering  height, — he  had  turned, 
noiselessly  descended  the  steps,  arid  was  gliding  down 
through  the  sombre  elm-arches,  swift  and  stealthy  as  a 
phantom.  The  street  was  shadowy  at  best,  but  he  chose 
the  darker  side ;  it  was  wellnigh  deserted,  at  that  hour,  but 
he  soon  turned  into  a  still  less  frequented  one,  and  then 
struck  into  a  more  assured  and  less  noiseless,  as  well  as 
swifter,  pace. 

As  he  went,  he  drew  a  ring  from  his  finger,  and  glancing 
hastily  round,  to  make  sure  that  he  was  unobserved,  he 
flung  it  far  into  the  dusky  shadow  of  a  garden  thicket. 
Only  the  day  before,  a  friend  had  said  to  him, — "  Roath,  do 
you  know  that  the  stone  is  gone  from  your  ring?"  and  he 
had  answered, — "  Yes  ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  have  lost  it,  for  it 
was  my  father's."  And  he  had  proceeded  to  point  out  the 
antique  setting,  and  to  describe  the  peculiar  shape  and  tint 
of  the  gem  which  it  had  inclosed.  He  gnashed  his  teeth 
as  he  recalled  the  short,  but  momentous  conversation.  But 
for  that,  he  would  not  have  fled. 

The  garden  into  which  he  had  flung  the  ring  adjoined 
a  small  cottage ;  and,  at  one  of  the  open  windows,  a  gray- 
haired  dame  sat  in  a  high-backed  chair,  listening  to  the 
clear,  musical  voice  of  an  invisible  reader.  This  fragment 
of  a  sentence  floated  out  to  him  on  the  dim,  night  air, — 
"  lie  shall  be  holden  with  the  cords  of — " 

Even  at  that  moment,  the  words  struck  him  sharply. 
Involuntarily  he  slackened  his  pace,  and  half-turned  to 
catch  the  remainder  of  the  sentence,  but  it  was  inaudible. 
The  uncertainty  before  him,  the  terror  behind,  were,  for 
the  time,  almost  forgotten  in  a  certain  chill  curiosity. 
"  Holden  with  the  cords — holden  with  the  cords,"  he  re- 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

peated  to  himself,  as  he  hurried  on, — "  I  wonder  what  book 
she  was  reading !  I  should  really  like  to  hear  the  end  of 
that  sentence ! " 

Still  keeping  up  his  swift  pace  and  vigilant  glance,  he 
nevertheless  sank  into  a  partial  abstraction.  Some  discon 
nected  sentences,  breaking  at  intervals  from,  his  lips,  served 
to  show  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Set  it  down,  once  for  all,"  he  muttered,  "  that  crime — 
absolute  crime,  of  which  the  law  can  take  hold — is  a  mis 
take. — Into  the  best-laid  scheme,  the  one  most  carefully 
framed  and  skilfully  executed,  Chance — many  would  say, 
Providence  (can  there  be  a  Providence  after  all  ?) — drops 
some  trivial,  fortuitous  circumstance,  which  disconcerts  or 
betrays  everything. — The  question  is,  could  it  have  been 
foreseen? — I  have  worn  that  ring  for  sixteen  years. — No! 
no!  it  is  too  subtile  and  too  intricate  a  matter  to  think 
about  now.  I  have  more  pressing  subjects  of  reflection. — 
Only,  set  it  down,  for  future  use,  that  the  essential  thing  is 
to  keep  clear  of  crime." 

" Holden  with  the  cords!"  echoed  suddenly  and  perti 
naciously  through  his  memory,  as  if  by  way  of  defiant 
answer  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  reached.  He  set  his 
teeth,  and  dashed  more  swiftly  onward. 

Ere  long,  he  reached  the  railway  depot.  In  a  large, 
underground  space,  half-filled  with  smoke  and  steam,  a  train 
stood  on  the  track,  the  engine  fretting  and  snorting  like  a 
steed  impatient  to  be  off,  and  the  bell  ringing  out  a  hasty 
summons,  curiously  typifying  the  sharp  call  to  leap  on  to 
some  favorable  train  of  circumstances,  and  be  borne  away 
to  fortune  or  to  ruin,  which  life  often  gives  us,  at  certain 
fateful  moments  of  its  rapid  career.  Roath  sprang  to  the 
rear  platform,  and,on  the  instant,the  train  moved. 

Swiftly  it  left  the  depot  behind  :  decayed  fences,  rickety 
outhouses,  heaps  of  rubbish  and  offal,  quickly  receded  into 
a  dingy  perspective  of  backside  city  life ;  scattered  coal- 
yards,  and  freight  and  engine-houses,  succeeded  ;  and  then, 


22  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKDS. 

the  cool,  moist  air  coming  in  at  the  windows,  and  a  swift- 
gliding  panorama  of  what  looked  like  a  terrestrial  sky  and 
stars,  told  him  that  he  was  being  borne  rapidly  along  the 
causeway  that  traversed  the  broad  bay, — in  the  tranquil 
waters  of  which  the  fair  night-heavens  were  faithfully  mir 
rored.  Hastily  running  his  eye  over  his  fifty  or  sixty  fellow- 
passengers,  and  finding  no  familiar  face,  he  settled  himself 
back  in  his  seat  with  a  long-drawn  breath  of  relief.  He 
remembered  that  he  was  on  an  express  train,  with  twenty 
miles  between  him  and  the  next  station;  he  could  count 
upon  a  safe  half  hour,  at  least,  for  the  working  out  of  the 
difficult  problem  before  him.  To  that  problem  he  at  once 
addressed  himself,  with  the  whole  force  of  his  intellect  and 
will ; — though  ever  and  anon,  that  perplexing  fragment  of 
a  sentence  would  float  distractingly  through  his  mind,  say 
ing  itself  over  and  over  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  sharp 
click  of  the  rails, — "  Holdeu  with  the  cords — Holden  with 
the  cords ! " 

From  that  night,  for  many  years,  Edmund  Roath  disap 
peared  as  completely  from  the  sight  and  search  of  all  who 
had  known  him,  as  if  the  train  wherein  he  sat  had  suddenly 
flung  itself  headlong  from  that  narrow  causeway,  and  those 
deep,  silent,  star-mirroring  waters,  closing  above  him,  had 
steadfastly  refused  to  give  up  their  dead.  In  brief  space  of 
time,  his  very  name,  as  well  as  the  circumstances  that  had 
made  it  notorious,  was  forgotten  by  those  who  had  been 
most  diligent  in  passing  it  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Seldom 
was  it  recalled  even  by  the  few  who  had  known  him  best, 
and  had  yielded  the  heartiest  admiration  to  his  rare  intel 
lectual  gifts.  Having  never  taken  any  real  hold  of  any 
human  heart,  it  was  but  natural  that  he  should  pass  behind 
the  first  intervening  cloud,  and  leave  no  vacancy. 

Did  he  thereby  escape  the  worst  consequences  of  his 
sin? 


PAET  FIRST. 

A  WAY  THAT   SEEMETH  RIGHT. 


L 

"  PROVERBS,  AND    THE    INTERPRETATION." 

THE   road  was  straight,  level,  and  monotonous.      It 
seemed  to  stretch  on  for  miles,  walled  in,  on  either 
hand,  by  the  rank  and  profuse  foliage  of  the  South. 
Great    cottonwoods    and  water-oaks,  walnuts,  cypresses, 
larches,  and  junipers,  stood  side  by  side,  with  their  brawny 
arms  interlaced,  and  their  trunks  hidden  in  a  dense  and 
varied  undergrowth ;  while  jessamines  and  wild  grapevines 
climbed  up  to  meet  the  sunshine  at  their  tops,  and  pendent 
moss  hung  their  boughs  with  swaying  drapery  of  gray- 
green  leaves  and  filaments. 

What  lay  beyond  these  walls  of  verdure  was  only  to  be 
guessed  at  from  occasional  and  indistinct  glimpses.  Here, 
a  transient  view  of  corn  or  vegetable  rows,  and  a  sound  of 
voices,  gave  token  of  the  vicinity  of  a  small  plantation  or 
market  garden.  There,  a  scarcity  of  deciduous  trees  and 
a  predominance  of  evergreens,  a  more  lush  and  succulent 
character  of  undergrowth,  and  a  dark  gleam  of  stagnant 
water,  betrayed  the  proximity  of  an  extensive  moi'ass. 
Frequently,  the  eye  lost  itself  in  the  complicated  vistas 
of  thick  pine-barrens,  stretching  far  away  to  right  and 
left.  And,  ever  and  anon,  a  sudden  break  in  the  long  line 
of  verdure,  and  the  sight  of  a  divei-ging  wheel-track, 


24  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

quickly  lost  amid  overhanging  boughs,  served  'to  show  in 
what  direction  some  large  rice  or  cotton  estate  lay  hidden 
in  the  circumjacent  forest. 

It  scarcely  needs  to  be  added  that  the  road  was  pleas 
antly  cool  and  shadowy  in  the  late  September  afternoon. 
Even  at  midday,  its  track  would  present  but  few  and  scant 
patches  of  sunshine,  alternating  with  dense  masses  of 
shadow  or  spots  of  nickering  light  and  shade.  Now,  there 
fore,  with  the  sun  hanging  red  and  low  in  the  western  ho 
rizon,  scarce  a  fitful  orange  gleam  fell  athwart  the  path  of 
the  only  traveller  in  sight, — a  young  man,  of  thoughtful 
face  and  stalwart  figure,  striding  on  at  a  firm,  even  pace, 
with  a  portmanteau  strapped  across  his  shoulder.  Both 
the  face  and  the  portmanteau  seemed  to  indicate  that  his 
walk  was  not  for  pleasure  merely,  but  tended  to  some  defi 
nite,  anticipated  goal ;  while  the  keen,  observant  glance 
with  which  he  noted,  not  only  every  object  of  interest 
along  his  route,  but  the  character  of  the  soil  beneath  and 
the  foliage  overhead,  showed  that  his  road  was  as  unfa 
miliar  as  it  had  been,  for  the  most  part,  solitary.  Since  he 
left  the  outskirts  of  the  city  of  Savalla  behind,  more  than 
two  hours  ago,  he  had  seen  but  three  human  faces.  First, 
an  old  negro  woman,  wrinkled  and  white-haired,  had 
ducked  her  decrepit  form  to  him  in  what  would  have  been, 
but  for  the  stiffness  of  her  joints,  a  most  deferential  cour 
tesy.  Later  on,  a  teamster,  of  the  same  dependent  and 
obsequious  race,  had  doffed  to  him  the  ragged  remnant  of 
a  palm-leaf  hat,  and  uttered  a  civil,  "  Good  ebenin',  Massa.'' 
Lastly,  a  lank,  listless,  unkempt,  sallow-skinned  personage, 
in  a  white  covered  wagon,  snapping  a  long-lashed  whip  at 
a  nondescript  team,  and  belonging  to  the  curious  class 
known  as  "  crackers,"  had  suddenly  nodded  to  him,  after  a 
prolonged,  and,  at  first,  contemptuous  stare,  as  if  finally 
convinced  of  his  claim  to  the  civility, 

For  some  time  past,  the  road  had  led  through  a  monot 
onous  pine  barren,  and  the  traveller  had  fallen  into  a  fit  of 


"  PKOVEKBS,  AND   THE   INTERPRETATION."  25 

thought.  Raising  his  eyes,  at  last,  from  the  path  on  which 
they  had  been  fixed  in  abstraction,  he  saw  that  the  long 
vista  before  him  was  once  more  enlivened  by  a  moving  ob 
ject.  His  keen,  far  sight,  trained  in  western  wilds,  easily 
made  it  out  to  be  a  half-obsolete  kind  of  chaise,  moving  in 
the  same  direction  as  himself,  but  moving  so  slowly  that 
he  gained  on  it  at  every  step.  In  a  few  moments,  he  was 
close  behind  it,  quietly  observing  its  superannuated  style 
and  condition,  as  well  as  the  skinny  little  horse  that  fur 
nished  its  motive  power.  Hearing  the  sound  of  his  quick, 
firm  tread,  its  occupant  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  tattered 
volume  over  which  he  was  poring,  and  turned  to  look  at  him. 
He  himself,  in  a  very  different  way,  was  well  worthy  of 
observation.  He  was  email  and  spare,  probably  not  more 
than  sixty  years  of  age,  but  looking  much  older.  He  had 
that  parched  and  wizened  look,  oftenest  the  work  of  cir 
cumstances  rather  than  years,  which  makes  it  difficult  to 
realize  that  the  possessor  was  ever  young.  His  hair  and 
complexion  had  once  been  light;  the  one  was  now  gray, 
the  other  sallow,  except  for  a  faint  suggestion  of  red  at  the 
tip  of  an  otherwise  handsome  nose.  His  breath  exhaled  a 
perceptible  odor  of  strong  drink,  surrounding  him  as  with  an 
atmosphere  of  inflammable  gas.  His  dress  was  made  up 
of  divers  ill-fitting  garments  that  had  doubtless  accrued  to 
him  from  cast-off  wardrobes  ;  not  one  of  them  bearing  any 
relation  to  the  other,  but  all  being  in  an  advanced  stage  of 
seediness  well  suited  to  the  wearer.  Something  of  the 

o 

same  fusing  of  special  incongruities  into  general  fitness 
also  characterized  his  manner ;  wherein  the  mean  and  furtive 
air  of  the  shiftless  old  vagabond  was  curiouslv  blended 

O  «r 

with  the  pathetic  dignity  of  the  decayed  gentleman. 

He  eyed  the  young  foot  traveller  narrowly  for  a  mo 
ment,  though  with  a  sidelong  rather  than  a  straightforward 
glance ;  then,  bringing  his  willing  horse  to  a  stand  by  a 
jerk  of  the  reins,  and  a  sonorous  "  Whoa  ! "  he  lifted 
his  hat  and  gravely  accosted  him  : — 
2 


26  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

"  Manus  manum  lavat.  Men  were  meant  to  help  each 
other.  Have  a  ride,  sir  ?  " 

The  stranger  hesitated,  perhaps  trying  to  reconcile  the 
address  and  the  speaker,  perhaps  with  a  natural  enough 
doubt  as  to  the  character  of  the  companionship  thus  of 
fered.  "Thank  you,"  said  he,  at  last,  "but  I  doubt  if  it 
be  worth  while." 

" '  Good  and  Quickly  seldom  meet,' "  responded  the 
other,  sententiously.  "  Besides,"  he  added,  seeing  that  the 
traveller  was  puzzled  to  understand  the  drift  of  his  saw, 
"  Pegasus — I  call  him  Pegasus  because  he's  not  winged — 
is  '  like  a  singed  cat,  better  than  he  looks.'  Moreover,  Com- 
pagnon  Men  parlant  vaut  en  chemin  chariot  branlant. 
Which  may  be  freely  translated,  '  Good  company  shortens 
the  road  as  much  as  a  swift  horse.' " 

"  Oh  !  I  meant  no  disrespect  to  your  equipage,  I  assure 
you,"  returned  the  young  man,  smiling.  "  Only,  I  sup 
posed  that  I  must  be  near  my  journey's  end.  Is  it  far  to 
.Berganton?" 

"  That  depends.  '  The  last  straw  breaks  the  camel's 
back.'  It  is  three  miles,  moi'e  or  less.  But  I  should  have 
said,  from  your  face,  that  you  would  want  to  stop  this  side 
of  that." 

"  Do  I  look  so  tired  ?    Indeed  I  am  not." 

"  Um — no,  I  should  say  not.  But  faces  show  something 
besides  weariness, — '  like  father,  like  son,'  you  know.  If 
your  looks  are  to  be  trusted,  there's  an  old  mansion  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on,  whose  door  ought  to  open 
to  you  of  its  own  accord — if  it  can  open  at  all." 

The  young  man  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "  I  am 
sorry  that  my  looks  should  belie  me,"  said  he,  "  but  I  have 
no  claim  upon  the  said  mansion's  hospitality." 

"  Umph  !  'tis  a  wise  child  that  knows  its  own  father. 
Tush,  tush,  man  !  "  he  added,  hastily,  seeing  the  young 
man's  cheek  flush,  "  I  meant  no  harm ;  proverbs  run  from 
my  tongue  like  water  from  a  Dutch  roof.  Besides,  Nao  ha 


"PROVERBS,  AND  THE  INTERPRETATION."  27 

palavra  maldita  se  naofora  mal  cntendida, — that  is  to  say, 
'  No  word  is  ill-spoken  which  is  not  ill-taken.'  But  come  ! 
come!  jump  in  !  I'll  carry  you  to  Berganton,  since  that's 
your  goal,  and  welcome.  The  night  is  drawing  on  apace ; 
you'll  be  glad  of  my  pilotage  before  we  get  there." 

The  young  man  glanced  down  the  darkening  road,  from 
which  the  last  ray  of  sunlight  had  vanished,  and  seemed 
still  to  hesitate ;  but  finally  sprang  lightly  into  the  chaise, 
and  the  horse  jogged  on. 

"  Proverbs,"  continued  the  old  man,  treating  his  three 
last  sentences  as  mere  parentheses, "  have  b,een  the  study  of 
my  life.  I  know  Lord  Chesterfield  bans  them  as  vulgar, 
but  is  he  wiser  than  Solomon  ?  or  better  authority  than 
Cicero  and  Scaliger  and  Erasmus  and  Bacon  and  Bentley  ? 
Bah  !  the  whole  gist  of  his  writings  might  be  compressed 
into  two  or  three  of  the  maxims  that  he  affects  to  despise. 
'  Fair-and-Softly  goes  far  in  a  day,'  will  live  when  his 
'  Letters '  are  forgotten.  And  a  good  reason  why.  Pro 
verbs  are  the  royal  road  to  wisdom.  They're  the  crystal 
lized  experience  of  the  ages.  They  epitomize  the  minds 
and  manners  of  the  people  that  brought  them  forth.  Who 
but  a  '  smooth,  fause '  Lowland  Scot,  for  instance,  would 
have  said  '  Rot  him  awa '  wi'  butter  an'  eggs  ? '  Who  but 
a  marauding  Hielander  would  have  declared,  'It's  a  bare 
moor  that  ane  goes  o'er  and  gets  na  a  coo  ? '  Who  but 
poor  priest-ridden,  king-ridden  Spain  would  have  said? 
Fraile  que  pide  por  Dios,  pide  par  dos, '  The  friar  that  begs 
for  God,  begs  for  two ; '  Quien  la  vaca  del  rey  come  flaca, 
(jorda  la  paga,  '  He  who  eats  the  king's  cow  lean,  pays  for 
it  fat ; ' — but  I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon,  perhaps  you 
know  Spanish  ?  " 

"  Not  very  well,"  good-naturedly  replied  the  young 
man,  taking  pity  on  his  companion's  inveterate  habit  of 
translation,  and  the  delight  which  it  plainly  afforded  him. 

"  Well  enough,  I  suppose,  to  know  that  it's  a  mine  of 
wealth  to  the  proverb-hunter,"  rejoined  the  old  man  gra- 


28  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKDS. 

ciously.  "  Here,  now,  is  a  good  one,  of  a  different  charac 
ter, — Adonde  vas,  mal?  Adonde  mas  hay, c  Whither  goest 
thou,  misfortune  ?  To  where  there  is  more  ? '  And  here  is 
a  pertinent  question  for  people  who  live  well  without  visible 
resources, — Los  que  cabras  no  tienen,  y  cabritos  widen, 
de  donde  les  vienen  ?  '  They  who  keep  no  goats,  and  yet 
sell  kids,  where  do  they  get  them  ? '  But,  after  all,  for  right 
sharp  and  serviceable  proverbs,  commend  me  to  the 
Danish.  Here  is  an  old  collection  that  I've  lately  picked 
up,  printed  at  Copenhagen,  in  1761; — just  let  me  read 
you  two  or  three." 

He  opened  the  dingy  volume  aforementioned,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  read,  translate,  and  comment,  with  infinite  zest. 
"  Ing  en  kommer  i  Skaden,  uden  han  selv  hiclper  til,  '  No 
man  gets  into  trouble  without  his  own  help' — (a  moral 
which  no  one  can  point  better  than  your  humble  servant) ; 
Naar  det  regner  Vcelling,  saa  har  Stodderen  ingen  Skee, 
'  When  it  rains  porridge,  the  beggar  has  no  spoon ' — (there's 
no  contenting  discontented  people)  ;  Ingen  Ko  kaldes 
broget  uden  him  haver  en  Flek,  '  A  cow  is  not  called  dap 
pled  unless  she  has  a  spot ' — (most  gossip  has  some  small 
foundation);  Hvo  som  vilgjore  et  start  Spring,  skal  gaae  vel 
tilbage,  '  He  that  would  leap  high  must  take  a  long  run ' — 
(else  we  should  have  bishops  and  judges  without  gray 
hairs)  ;  Det  kommer  igien,  sagde  Manden,  han  gav  sin  So 
FloBsk,  '  It  will  come  back  again,  said  the  man,  when  he 
gave  his  sow  pork : ' — don't  you  see  how  the  patient,  shrewd, 
humorous  character  of  the  Danes  peeps  through  them  all  ? 

"  Yet,  if  some  proverbs  are  national,  others  are  cosmo 
politan,  and   fit   all   generations,  and   all  countries.     For 
instance,  there's  the  Greek  saw,  'A-pxn  Wiffv  ^ov-d?, — see  how 
it  comes  down  through  every  language  under  the  sun,  till, 
at  last,  it  settles  into  terse  English  rhyme, 
'  Well  begun 
Is  half  done.' 

Or,  take  that  common  saying,  '  To  carry  coals  to  New- 


"  PROVERBS,  AND  THE  INTERPRETATION."       29 

castle,'  which  seems  to  have  originated  in  the  East.  At 
least,  we  find  it  first  in  the  Persian  of  Saadi,  '  To  carry 
pepper  to  Hindostan ; '  then  the  Hebrews  have  it,  '  To 
carry  oil  to  the  City  of  Olives ; '  the  Greeks,  '  owls  to 
Athens ; '  the  Latins,  *  wood  to  the  forest ; '  the  French, 
'  water  to  the  river  ;  '  the  Dutch,  '  firs  to  Norway  ; '  the 
Danish — Hallo!  Pegasus  !  what  are  you  about?" 

The  horse,  being  left  to  his  own  guidance  while  his 
master  was  riding  his  favorite  hobby,  had  taken  occasion 
to  shoot  off  from  the  main  road  into  an  apparently  little- 
used  track,  cut  through  a  thick  pine-barren  at  the  left. 
He  had  made  several  lengths  before  his  driver,  taken  at 
a  disadvantage,  could  pull  him  up. 

"  Pegasus  is  of  the  opinion  that '  the  longest  way  round 
is  the  surest  way  home,'  "  remarked  the  old  man,  apologeti 
cally,  as  he  scanned  the  narrow,  tree-lined  track,  with  a 
view  to  the  possibility  of  turning  safely  around.  "  Or,"  he 
added,  with  a  glance  of  sly  humor  at  the  traveller,  "  per 
haps  he  thinks,  as  I  did  just  now,  that  Bergan  Hall  is  your 
natural  destination." 

"  Bergan  Hall,"  repeated  the  young  man,  in  a  tone  of 
extreme  surprise, — "  is  this  the  way  to  Bergan  Hall  ?  I 
thought  you  came  to  the  village  first,  from  Savalla." 

"  So  you  did,  once,"  rejoined  the  old  man,  looking  sur 
prised,  in  his  turn  ;  "  but  that  must  have  been  before  you 
were  born,  if  your  face  doesn't  belie  your  age.  The  road 
used  to  make  a  long  elbow,  to  get  round  that  swamp  which 
you  crossed  a  mile  back.  But  it  was  straightened  thirty 
years  ago  at  least,— Autre  temps,  autre  chemin, — a  different 
time,  a  different  road.  And  so  you  are  going  to  Bergan 
Hall  ?  Well,  thanks  to  luck  and  Pegasus,  you're  in  the 
right  way." 

"  But  I  must  not  take  you  out  of  yours,"  responded  the 
young  man,  good-naturedly.  And  he  had  jumped  out  of 
the  chaise  before  its  owner  was  well  aware  of  his  inten 
tion. 


30  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

" Canis  festinans  ccecos  parit  catulos"  muttered  the 
old  man,  in  a  tone  of  chagrin.  "  In  other  words,  '  Look 
before  you  leap.'  I'd  as  soon  have  gone  this  way  as  the 
other.  My  placo  lies  between  the  Hall  and  the  village, 
and  the  choice  of  roads  isn't  worth  shucks, — at  least,  in 
comparison  with  a  pleasant  chat.  However,  you're  out, 
and  I  suppose  it's  no  use  to  ask  you  to  get  in  again,  since 
the  Hall  is  but  a  few  rods  away.  Keep  straight  ahead  till 
you  come  to  the  old  avenue,  then  turn  to  the  left.  Good 
day,  il  rty  a  si  bons  compagnons  qui  ne  se  separent, — the 
best  friends  must  part." 

"  Yes — to  meet  again,"  said  the  young  man,  pleasantly. 

"  Very  true ;  les  beaux  esprits  se  rencontrent*"  returned 
the  old  man,  slowly  and  cautiously  backing  his  crazy 
vehicle  around.  And  with  another  "  Good  day,"  and  a 
parting  gesture,  he  quickly  disappeared  among  the  fast- 
falling  shadows. 

The  young  man  stood  looking  after  him  for  a  moment, 
with  a  smile  half  of  amusement,  half  of  pity,  upon  his 
lips.  But  his  features  soon  settled  uito  something  more 
than  their  accustomed  gravity,  and  suddenly  facing  about, 
he  pursued  his  way. 

Ere  long  the  tall,  crowded  pines  of  the  barren  gave 
place  to  various  stubble  and  fallow  grounds,  with  here  and 
there  a  late  crop  waiting  to  be  harvested ;  and  shortly 
after,  the  narrow,  irregular  track  that  he  had  been  follow 
ing  encountered  a  broader  and  more  beaten  one.  Recog 
nizing  this,  with  some  difficulty,  as  the  "  avenue  "  of  which 
his  late  companion  had  spoken,  he  stopped,  and  gazed  up 
and  down  with  a  look  of  surprise  and  pain. 

It  was  bare  of  trees;  but  on  either  side  extended  a 
long  row  of  live  oak  stumps,  the  size  of  which  showed 
what  massive  trunks  and  far-reaching  branches  had  once 
columned  and  arched  it  like  a  temple.  Here  and  there, 
some  forgotten  bole  or  bough  lay  and  rotted  upon  the  very 
spot  which  it  had  formerly  overhung  with  a  soft  canopy  of 


"PROVERBS,  AND  THE  INTERPIIETATIOX."  31 

vardure,  and  made  beautiful  with  pleasant  play  of  sun 
shine  and  leaf-shadow ;  while  around  it  gathered  a  rank 
luxuriance  of  weeds,  transmuting  its  slow  aristocratic 
decay  into  teeming,  plebeian  life.  In  one  or  two  cases,  as 
if  moved  by  an  almost  human  sympathy,  vines  had  sprung 
up  around  the  bereaved  stumps,  and  sought  to  soften  their 
hard  outlines  with  clinging  drapery  of  leaves  and  tendrils. 
They  had  also  done  their  best  to  cover  up  various  unsightly 
gaps  in  the  long  lines  of  ruinous  fence  that  divided  the 
avenue  from  the  open  fields  on  either  side.  Yet  the  final 
effect  of  these  gentle  touches  was  only  to  deepen  the  pain 
ful  impression  of  the  scene.  Where  they  did  not  reach, 
the  bareness  was  so  much  more  bare,  the  dilapidation  so 
much  uglier ! 

The  young  observer  felt  this  bareness  and  dilapidation 
to  his  heart's  core, — felt  it  all  the  more  keenly  because  an 
image  of  the  avenue's  pristine  grandeur,  derived  from  the 
surrounding  fragments  (or  from  some  other  source),  contin 
ually  rose  before  his  mind's  eye,  to  heighten  its  present 
desolation  by  contrast.  His  brow  contracted  as  he  gazed  ; 
and  the  expression  of  his  face  changed  rapidly  from  sur 
prise  to  dissatisfaction,  from  dissatisfaction  to  perplexity, 
from  perplexity  to  doubt.  Once,  he  turned  as  if  half- 
minded  to  retrace  his  steps ;  but  the  next  moment,  he 
shook  off  his  irresolution  with  a  gesture  of  disdain,  and 
immediately  hastened  forward. 

The  avenue  terminated  in  an  open,  circular  space.  Evi 
dently,  it  had 'once  been  a  lawn;  but  it  was  now  covered 
with  half-obliterated  furrows,  showing  that  at  some  not  very 
remote  period,  it  had  been  planted  with  corn.  Around  it 
stood  a  number  of  gigantic  live-oaks,  heavily  draped  with 
moss,  and  brooding  dusky  shadows  under  their  massive 
boughs.  Fronting  upon  it,  was  a  large  mansion  of  dark 
brick,  consisting  of  an  upright,  two-story  main  building, 
with  a  huge,  clustered  chimney  in  the  midst,  and  long,  low, 
rambling  wings  on  either  side. 


32  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    COKDS. 

The  whole  place  had  a  deserted  and  melancholy  appear 
ance.  The  moss  on  the  live-oaks  swayed  slowly  to  and  fro 
in  the  evening  breeze,  with  a  wonderfully  sombre  and  fune 
real  effect ;  and  the  mansion  was  dark  and  silent  as  any 
ruin.  Not  a  light  shone  from  the  closed  windows ;  not  a 
sound  came  from  the  deep,  shadowy  doorway ;  and  the 
unsteady  stone  steps,  slippery  with  damp  and  green  with 
moss,  gave  the  impression  of  a  spot  where  no  human  foot 
had  left  its  print  for  many  years. 

The  young  man  halted  at  a  little  distance  from  the  dark 
building,  and  surveyed  it  moodily.  "  Can  this  be  Bergan 
Hall?"  he  murmured.  "  Can  this  gloomy  old  ruin  be  the 
open,  cheery,  hospitable  mansion,  full  of  light  and  life,  that 
my  mother  has  so  often  described  to  me?  It  looks  a  habi 
tation  for  ghosts — and  for  ghosts  only  !  I  wonder  if  any 
living  being — " 

Breaking  off  abruptly,  he  ascended  the  moss-grown 
steps,  only  to  find  that  the  vines  which  so  heavily  draped 
the  portico,  had  woven  a  thick  network  across  the  door. 
It  was  plain  that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  months,  per 
haps  years.  Nevertheless,  not  to  be  easily  daunted,  he 
found  and  lifted  the  knocker.  It  fell  with  a  dull  lifeless 
sound,  that  smote  the  young  man's  heart  like  a  sudden 
chill.  A  dreary  reverberation  came  from  within,  and  then 
died  away  into  silence.  He  knocked  again,  and,  listening 
intently,  he  fancied  that  he  heard  the  sound  of  stealthy 
footsteps  within,  and  a  slight  creaking  of  the  floor.  But 
so  dead  a  silence  followed  upon  these  imaginai'y  sounds, 
that  he  soon  became  convinced  of  his  involuntary  self- 
deception. 

Turning  from  the  door,  he  now  noticed  a  little  footpath 
running  round  the  end  of  one  of  the  long  wings.  Commit 
ting  himself  to  this  timely  guide,  he  soon  came  in  sight  of 
the  rear  of  the  mansion,  which  looked  upon  a  sort  of 
court ;  where  a  few  ornamental  shrubs  still  held  an  uncer 
tain  tenure  against  the  encroachments  of  divers  sorts  of 


"  PROVERBS,  AND  THE  INTERPRETATION."       33 

lawless  and  vagrant  vegetation.  At  a  little  distance,  was  a 
long  range  of  dilapidated  offices,  showing  upon  what  an 
almost  princely  scale  the  housekeeping  had  once  been  ad 
ministered.  But  this  part  of  the  premises  was  not  less 
dark,  silent,  and  deserted,  than  the  other. 

The  footpath  still  held  on,  however,  past  the  court  and 
the  offices,  toward  a  bright  light  at  a  considerable  distance. 
"The  negro  quarter!"  muttered  the  young  man,  recogniz 
ing  the  whereabout  of  one  of  the  most  salient  features  of  his 
mother's  well-remembered  descriptions.  "  At  least,  1  may 
learn  there  what  it  all  means."  And,  quickening  his  steps, 
he  soon  came  upon  a  busy  and  picturesque  scene. 

In  the  midst  of  a  large,  quadrangular  space,  flanked  on 
three  sides  by  double  rows  of  negro-cabins,  and  on  the 
fourth  apparently  sloping  down  to  a  water-course,  was  a 
rough  sort  of  threshing-mill,  now  idle,  but  showing  satis 
factory  results  of  its  day's  labor  in  a  large  heap  of  rice  by 
its  side.  A  crowd  of  negroes,  of  both  sexes,  coarsely  and 
uncouthly  clad,  were  busily  filling  odd,  shallow  baskets 
from  this  heap,  which  they  then  poised  on  their  heads,  and 
bore  off  down  the  slope  to  some  unseen  goal.  There  were 
two  regular,  silent  files,  the  one  coming,  the  other  going ; 
and  the  heap  of  grain  steadily  and  even  swiftly  diminished. 
Near  the  mill,  stood  the  only  white  person  visible, — a  large, 
powerfully-framed  man,  cai'elessly  and  even  shabbily 
dressed,  yet  with  the  iinmistakable  air  of  ownership  about 
him.  At  his  left  hand,  a  half-naked,  impish  looking  negro 
boy  was  holding  a  blazing  pitch-pine  torch,  by  the  light  of 
which  he  seemed  to  be  jotting  down  some  sort  of  memo 
randa  in  a  small  book. 

The  scene  was  even  more  strange  and  weird  than  pic 
turesque.  The  dark  figures  of  the  negroes,  filing  noiselessly 
up  the  shadowed  slope,  suddenly  grew  distinct,  wild,  and 
fantastic,  within  the  circle  of  enchantment  made  by  the 
flaring  light  of  the  torch,  only  to  become  dim  and  spectral 
again  when  received  back  into  the  dusk.  They  might  have 


34  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

passed  for  embodiments  of  those  vagaries  of  the  mind, 
which  come  from  no  one  knows  whither,  play  their  fitful 
parts  within  the  illuminated  circle  of  the  imagination,  and 
vanish  as  they  came.  The  young  man  would  almost  have 
taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course,. had  the  whole  spectacle  sud 
denly  melted  into  thin  air. 

Yet,  even  in  that  case,  he  would  have  expected  thu 
masterful  personage  aforementioned  to  have  remained,  as 
the  one  tangible  link  between  the  phantasms  and  the  earth. 
In  truth,  a  single  glance  at  his  massive  figure,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  hewn  out  of  the  rock,  rather  than  moulded 
from  any  softer  material,  went  far  to  disenchant  the  scene. 
Here  was  a  touch  of  the  actual,  the  substantial,  and  the 
dogmatic,  not  to  be  mistaken ;  and  serving  as  a  clue  to  the 
reality  of  everything  else. 

Toward  this  personage,  after  a  moment's  scrutiny,  the 
young  man  unhesitatingly  made  his  way,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  has  found  something  certain  amid  much  that  is  con 
fused,  illusory,  and  perplexing.  He  was  immediately  spied 
by  the  negroes,  and  followed  by  their  curious  gaze ;  albeit, 
they  ventured  not  to  intermit  their  labor  for  an  instant,  but 
contented  themselves  with  slowly  and  stiffly  turning  their 
burdened  heads  toward  him  as  they  marched  on,  and  keep 
ing  their  shining  black  eyes  fixed  on  him  to  the  last,  in  such 
wise  that  the  heads  of  the  retreating  file  seemed  to  have 
been  set  on  backwards.  The  boy  with  the  torch  was  per 
haps  the  most  wondering,  open-mouthed  gazer  of  them  all. 

As  yet,  the  master  of  the  premises  had  not  been  made 
aware  of  the  stranger's  approach ;  but,  looking  up  to  repri 
mand  his  torch-bearer  for  inattention,  he  observed  the  imp's 
dumbfounded  gaze,  and  turned  to  see  what  had  caused  it. 

"  My  uncle,  Mr.  Bergan,  I  presume,"  said  the  young 
man,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  bowing  low :  "  I  am  Bergan 
Arling."  And  he  added,  after  a  moment,  seeing  that  the 
other  did  not  speak,  "  I  bring  you  a  letter  from  my 
mother." 


- 


II. 

STUDYING   TO   ANSWER. 

MAJOR  BERGAIST— to  give  him  the  title  by  which 
he  was  known  throughout  the  country  round — 
displayed  no  alacrity  of  welcome.  He  first  scanned 
his  visitor  closely  from  head  to  foot,  and  then  silently  ex 
tended  his  hand  for  the  letter  which  the  young  man  had 
drawn  forth  from  an  inner  pocket. 

"  Hold  that  light  here  !  "  were  his  first  words,  in  a  tone 
deep  as  a  thunder-peal,  and  addressed  not  to  Bergan  Arling, 
hut  to  the  aforesaid  torch-bearer.  "  And  quit  your  staring, 
and  mind  your  business,  or  I'll — " 

The  sentence  died  away  in  an  inarticulate  growl,  but 
the  boy  was  plainly  at  no  loss  to  understand  its  purport. 
With  a  startled  look,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  torch,  and 
only  ventured  to  withdraw  them  for  an  occasional,  furtive 
glance  at  the  object  of  his  curiosity.  Meanwhile,  his  mas 
ter  opened  the  letter,  and  read  it  deliberately  from  begin 
ning  to  end.  The  light  of  the  torch  fell  full  upon  his 
face  as  he  did  so,  giving  Bergan  Arling  an  opportunity  to 
study  him,  iiv  his  turn. 

His  face  was  a  striking  one ;  in  youth  it  had  doubtless 
been  handsome.  Now,  his  brow  was  too  massive,  his 
mouth  too  stern,  his  eyes  too  cold,  his  beard  too  gray  and 
heavy,  to  bear  any  relation  to  mere  personal  beauty.  All  soft 
lights  and  lines  had  long  gone  out  of  them  ;  what  remained 
was  hard,  bold,  and  rugged,  as  a  rocky  headland  in  winter. 
The  rude  strength  which  was  the  marked  characteristic  of 
his  form,  repeated  itself  emphatically  in  his  face.  Compar- 


36  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

ing  it  with  the  mental  portrait,  carefully  touched  and  re 
touched  by  his  mother's  hand,  which  Bcrgan  had  carried 
in  his  mind  since  childhood,  he  felt  that  the  one  resembled 
the  other  only  as  a  tree  in  autumn,  stripped  bare  of  its  fo 
liage  and  its  blossoms,  resembles  the  same  tree  in  its  gracious 
summer  bloom  and  verdure.  Little  trace  of  the  frank,  proud 
lineaments,  the  warm,  yet  generous  temper,  of  that  ideal 
picture,  was  to  be  found  in  this  harsh,  stubborn,  sarcastic 
face  ;  the  face  of  a  man  long  given  over  to  the  hardening 
influences  of  a  solitary  and  a  selfish  life.  In  short,  Major  Ber- 
gan  confirmed  anew  the  old  truth  that  no  man  can  live,  long 
for  himself  alone,  shutting  out  all  gentler  ties  and  ameni 
ties,  and  driving  straight  at  his  own  practical  ends,  un 
mindful  of  either  the  ways,  the  opinions,  or  the  feelings  of 
others,  without  reaping  his  due  reward  in  a  loss  of  moral 
health,  and  a  gradual  decay  of  all  his  finer  sensibilities  and 
higher  instincts. 

The  only  point  wherein  the  real  man  resembled  the  ideal 
one,  was  in  a  certain  ineffaceable  pride  of  birth,  showing 
itself  not  only  in  his  port,  but  darkening  his  harsh  features 
with  a  heavy  shade  of  hauteur. 

Yet  a  smile  might  do  much  to  light  up  and  soften  the 
Majoi-'s  face  ;  and  the  smile  came  when  he  had  finished  the 
letter,  and  did  its  work  all  the  more  effectually  because  it 
was  a  somewhat  sad  one. 

"  Forty  and  two  years,"  said  he,  musingly,  "  since  Elea 
nor  went !  Yet  I  can  see  her  now,  with  her  bright  face 
and  her  arch  ways  !  She  was  the  sunshine  of  the  old  Hall ; 
it  has  never  been  the  same  place  since  she  left  it.  And  she 
would  hardly  know  it,  if  she  were  to  come  back  now  !  But 
times  change  ;  and  we  are  fools  if  we  do  not  chancre  with 

o      *  o 

them.  "Well,  my  boy !  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  and  that  is 
not  what  I  would  say  to  many, — I'm  not  much  in  the  way 
of  having  visitors.  But  Eleanor's  son  is  heartily  welcome 
to  the  old  place." 

He  took  his  nephew's  hand,  shook  it  cordially,  and  con- 


\ 

STUDYING    TO    ANSWER.  37 

tinned  to  hold  it  in  a  vice-like  grasp,  while  lie  once  more 
attentively  scanned  the  young  man's  features. 

"  You  are  a  true  Bergan,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  I'm  glad 
to  see  that !  And  you  have  her  eyes,  too.  Ah,  what  eyes 
they  used  to  be  !  as  soft  and  bright  as  any  fawn's  !  Well ! 
well !  it's  no  use  to  think  of  the  old  times — they  can't 
come  back.  But  I  am  right  glad  to  see  you,  my  boy ;  and 
I  take  it  very  kind  of  Eleanor  to  have  sent  you  to  me.  Is 
she  much  changed  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Bergan,  smiling, — "that  is,  since 
you  knew  her.  She  has  not  changed  greatly  during  my 
remembrance.  She  is  a  young-looking  woman  yet,  for  her 
years  ;  her  eyes  are  still  bright,  and  her  checks  rosy.  Our 
western  climate  and  life  have  agreed  with  her  well.  Yet  I 
cannot  fancy  her  a  young  lady." 

"  Ah,  but  you  shall  see  her  as  a  young  lady !  There's 
a  portrait  of  her  in  the  old  house,  taken  not  long  before 
she  went  away,  that  does  everything  but  speak  and  move. 
Indeed,  I  used  to  imagine  that  it  did  both,  when  I  had  it 
in  my  quarters  out  here,  as  I  did  for  a  time.  But  it  gave 
me  the  blues  so,  to  look  at  it,  and  think  how  things  used 
to  be,  and  see  how  they  had  altered,  that  I  finally  sent  it 
back  to  its  old  place  in  the  portrait  gallery.  But  how  did 
you  get  here,  at  this  hour  ?  " 

"  I  walked  from  Savalla,  leaving  my  baggage — except 
this  portmanteau — to  come  on  by  stage  to-morrow." 

"Walked!  A  nice  little  tramp  of  thirteen  miles  or 
more  !  Why  in  the  name  of  sense  didn't  you  ride  ?  " 

"  I  was  too  late  for  the  stage,  and  could  not  readily  find 
a  hack.  To  be  sure,  I  wasted  but  little  time  in  looking  for 
one ;  I  do  not  mind  walking,  I  am  used  to  it." 

"  That  may  do  -  very  well  for  the  West.  But  you'll 
lose  caste,  my  boy,  if  you  walk  here.  You  must  have  a 
horse." 

"  When  I  can  afford  it,"  replied  the  young  man,  lightly 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Meanwhile,  doubtless  I  shall 


ob  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

find  my  western  habit  useful,  if  vulgar.  But  I  am  not 
prepared  to  admit  that  it  is  vulgar.  A  young  English 
nobleman,  who  spent  some  months  in  our  neighborhood, 
Avas  a  practised  walker ;  he  thought  nothing  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles,  on  occasion.  And  if  it  was  *  caste '  for  him, 
why  not  for  me?" 

"  Humph  !  we  Southerners  boast  a  good  deal  of  our  Eng 
lish  ancestors,  but  we  don't  feel  called  upon  to  imitate 
them  !  " 

With  the  softening  recollections  of  his  youth,  the  Major 
had  also  laid  aside  his  unwonted  gentleness  of  manner ; 
and  the  freezing  satire  of  his  last  words,  though  it  was  doubt 
ful  whether  he  meant  it  for  himself  or  his  nephew,  pained 
the  young  man's  ear.  Instinctively  he  dropped  the  dis 
cussion. 

"I  forgot  to  mention,"  said  he,  "that  I  did  not  walk 
quite  the  whole  distance.  A  queer  old  character  whom  I 
overtook,  insisted  upon  giving  me  a  lift  to  Berganton." 

"To  Berganton!  What  had  you  to  do  with  Bergan 
ton,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  the  road  had  been  changed  ;  I 
supposed  that  I  must  needs  pass  through  the  village  on  my 
way  to  Bergan  Hall.  I  intended  to  stay  there  over  night, 
and  come  to  you  early  in  the  morning, — I  did  not  think  it 
right  to  descend  upon  you  suddenly,  late  at  night.  But 
finding  myself  unexpectedly  on  the  road  hither,  and  almost 
in  sight  of  the  Hall,  I  regarded  it  as  an  indication  of  Prov 
idence  not  to  be  misunderstood." 

"  And  well  you  did ! "  returned  the  Major,  with  rude 
emphasis,  "  well  you  did !  I  should  have  taken  it  as  a  di 
rect  insult  if  my  sister's  son  had  slept  anywhere  in  this 
region,  but  on  the  old  place.  I  wish  I  could  say,  under 
the  old  roof,"  he  went  on,  in  a  friendlier  tone,  "  but  that 
leaks  like  a  sieve,  and  I  quitted  it  long  ago.  Of  course,  it 
might  have  been  mended  ;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  old 
house  was  much  too  big  and  gloomy  and  damp  and  di.> 


STUDYING   TO    ANSWER.  39 

«». 

agreeable  to  keep  bachelor's  hall  in  comfortably,  and  I  was 
glad  to  get  out  of  it.  Besides,  I'd  had  all  sorts  of  trouble 
with  my  overseers,  and  I  decided  that  the  only  way  to  have 
things  managed  to  my  mind  was  to  manage  them  myself. 
In  order  to  do  that,  it  was  necessary  to  be  on  the  spot.  So 
I  fixed  up  my  overseer's  cottage  into  a  snug  little  box  for 
myself,  where  I'm  as  cosey  and  comfortable  as  a  rat  in  a 
rice-heap.  But  come  in,  and  see  for  yourself  how  it  looks. 
Jip,  you  rascal !  why  don't  you  take  your  young  master's 
portmanteau  ?  " 

The  torch-boy  caught  the  portmanteau,  and  Bergan 
followed  his  uncle  into  a  small  cottage  at  one  corner  of  the 
quadrangle,  so  situated  as  to  command  a  view  both  of  the 
mill  and  the  cabins.  The  room  into  which  he  was  ushered 
was  plainly  but  comfortably  furnished.  A  fire  of  pitch- 
pine  knots  blazed  on  the  hearth,  reddening  the  rough  walls 
and  the  bare  floor  with  its  pleasant  glow.  A  slipshod  ne- 
gress,  with  a  gay  turban,  was  busy  laying  the  table  for 
supper.  The  effect  was,  upon  the  whole,  cheery,  and  ought 
to  have  been  especially  so  to  a  tired  and  hungry  traveller ; 
yet  Bergan  looked  around  him  with  a  manifest  air  of  dis 
appointment.  His  uncle  noticed  it,  and  remarked,  apolo 
getically, 

"  You  would  prefer  to  see  the  Hall,  eh  ?  Well,  you 
shall  see  it  in  the  morning,  and  I  reckon  you'll  agree  with 
me  that  it's  anything  but  a  cheerful-looking  abode.  Though, 
if  I  had  known  that  a  nephew  of  mine  was  coming  to  keep 
me  company,  I  don't  know  but  I  should  have  stayed  there." 

The  negress  now  signified  that  supper  was  on  the  table, 
the  food  having  been  brought  in,  ready  cooked,  from  the 
nearest  cabin  ;  and  Major  Bergan  pointed  to  a  chair  opposite 
his  own. 

"  Sit  down,  Harry,  and  fall  to.  Your  tramp  must  have 
given  you  a  right  sharp  appetite." 

"Thank  you.  But,  uncle,  my  name  is  Bergan,  not 
Harry." 


40  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    COEDS. 

"  Not  Harry  ! "  repeated  the  Major,  sharply, — "  I  should 
like  to  know  the  reason  why !  Didn't  your  mother  write 
that  she  had  named  you  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly.  But  she  regarded  you  as  the  head  of 
the  family,  and  in  giving  me  the  family  name — " 

"  She  named  you  for  the  whole  breed — my  degenerate 
half-brother  and  all !  "  interrupted  the  Major,  bringing  his 
clenched  fist  down  upon  the  table  with  a  force  that  threat 
ened  to  demolish  it.  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir,  I  shall  not 
stand  any  half-way  work !  If  you  are  named  after  me, 
you've  got  to  go  the  whole  figure.  Harry  Bergan  Arling 
you  are,  and  Harry  Bergan  Arling  you  shall  be, — at  least 
as  long  as  you  stay  in  these  parts." 

The  imperious  tone  of  this  speech  was  by  no  means 
agreeable  to  Bergan's  ear ;  it  was  not  without  an  effort  that 
he  replied,  pleasantly ; — 

"  Call  me  what  you  like,  uncle.  I  shall  not  refuse  to 
answer  to  any  name  that  you  are  pleased  to  give  me." 

Major  Bergan  was  evidently  much  gratified.  "  That's 
right,  my  boy ! — we'll  shake  hands  upon  that ! "  he  ex 
claimed,  heartily.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  that  Eleanor  has 
raised  her  son  in  the  good  old  fashion  of  submission  to 
elders.  Bless  my  soul !  I  thought  it  was  entirely  obsolete. 
Young  men  round  here  know  more  at  twenty  than  the 
fathers  that  begot  them.  As  for  obedience,  they  leave 
that  to  the  negroes." 

The  meal  was  abundant  and  substantial.  It  consisted 
of  a  single  course,  of  bacon,  vegetables,  and  corn-bread, 
very  simply,  not  to  say  rudely,  served.  It  would  seem 
that  the  master  of  the  feast  cared  no  more  for  refinements 
of  table  than  of  manner.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  were  to  be 
seen  the  pern-icious  effects  of  his  solitary  mode  of  life.  He 
ate  greedily  ;  he  forgot  his  duties  as  host,  or  they  came  but 
tardily  to  his  remembrance  ;  he  fell  into  fits  of  abstraction, 
and  started  as  from  a  dream  at  the  sound  of  his  nephew's 
voice.  Yet  tokens  were  not  wanting  that  lie  had  once 


STUDYING   TO   ANSWER.  41 

been  well  versed  in  the  art  of  external  manners.  At  inter 
vals,  answering  involuntarily,  as  it  were,  to  the  touch  of 
Bergan's  fine,  natural  courtesy,  the  gentlemanly  instincts 
of  earlier  days  revived,  and  flung  a  momentary  grace 
around  his  words  and  actions.  It  was  like  the  sunbeams 
that  occasionally  glimmer  out  over  a  cloudy  landscape, 
attracting  the  gaze  even  more  surely  than  any  full  blaze  of 
splendor,  yet  causing  a  certain  impatience,  as  if  they  ought 
either  to  kindle  into  satisfactory  brightness,  or  be  wholly 
extinguished.  The  rudeness  of  his  ordinary  manner  was 
only  thrown  into  bolder  relief  by  these  flashes  of  a  half- 
extinct  good  breeding. 

To  meet  the  demands  of  thirst,  a  bottle  of  brandy,  and 
another  of  water,  stood  by  Major  Bergan's  plate ;  which, 
after  filling  his  own  glass,  he  pushed  over  to  his  nephew. 

"  There,  Harry !  that  is  what  will  put  new  life  into  you, 
after  your  journey." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  seldom  use  brandy." 

"A  little  too  strong  for  you,  eh?"  returned  the  Major, 
indulgently.  "  Well,  there's  a  stock  of  wine  in  the  cellar 
of  the  Hall, — I  reckon  some  of  it  must  be  fifty  or  sixty 
years  old,  it  has  been  there  ever  since  I  can  remember, — 
I'll  send  for  a  bottle  or  two  of  that."  And  he  uplifted  a 
stentorian  call  of  "  Jip,"  which  brought  that  urchin-of-all- 
work  to  the  door,  in  breathless  haste. 

"  Uncle," — began  Bergan,  but  the  Major  was  thunder 
ing  out  minute  directions  about  cellars,  and  keys,  and  tiers, 
and  labels,  and  either  could  not,  or  would  not,  hear. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  have  given  yourself  the  trouble," 
said  Bergan,  when  quiet  was  restored.  "  I  do  not  care  for 
wine." 

Major  Bergan  set  down  his  glass,  and  looked  at  his 
nephew  sternly  and  gloomily.  "Don't  tell  me  that  you 
are  a  mean-spirited  teetotaller,"  he  growled.  "  I  can't  say 
how  I  might  take  it.  There  never  was  a  milksop  in  the 
family  yet." 


42  HOLDEN   WITH    THE    CORDS. 

"  No,  I  am  hardly  that.  But  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
use  spirituous  liquors  of  any  sort.  And  I  certainly  do  not 
need  them.  I  am  in  perfect  health  ;  I  hardly  know  what  it 
is  to  feel  tired." 

"  I  wish  I  didn't !  "  muttered  his  uncle,  a  little  less  sav 
agely.  "  I'm  pretty  hearty,  for  my  years,  to  be  sure.  But 
an  ache  gets  into  my  bones  now  and  then,  just  to  remind 
me  that  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was  once.  And  the  best 
thing  to  rout  it  is  a  good  glass  of  brandy.  Better  take 
one  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  excuse  me,"  replied 
Bergan,  with  a  smile  so  frank,  and  a  gesture  so  courteous, 
that  the  Major  was  irresistibly  mollified. 

"  A  guest's  wish  is  a  command,"  said  he,  with  one  of 
his  rare  glimmers  of  courtesy.  "  But  here  comes  the  wine ! 
I  really  cannot  excuse  you  from  that, — at  least,  I  should  be 
very  loath  to  do  so.  I'll  even  join  you  in  a  glass.  Here's 
to  your  mother's  health  and  happiness! — you  won't  refuse 
to  drink  that,  not  on  the  place  where  she  was  raised." 

If  Bergan  v,ras  annoyed  by  his  uncle's  persistency,  he 
forebore  to  show  it.  But,  having  duly  honored  the  toast, 
he  pushed  his  glass  aside,  and  declined  every  invitation  to 
have  it  refilled. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  his  uncle,  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  resig 
nation,  "  we  won't  quarrel  about  it  now.  But  I  see  that 
your  education  is  incomplete,  and  I  shall  take  it  upon  my 
self  to  finish  it.  If  I  don't  teach  you  to  drink  like  a  gentle 
man,  in  a  month,  I  shall  know  that  you  are  no  true  Bergan, 
in  spite  of  your  looks." 

Bergan  only  smiled. 

"  Your  temperance  is  the  one  thing  I  don't  like  about 
you,"  pursued  his  uncle,  filling  his  own  glass  to  the  brim. 
"  Ah,  yes,  there's  one  more ; — your  mother  writes  that  you 
have  studied  law,  and  mean  to  practise  it." 

"Yes;  I  received  my  license  just  two  months  ago." 

"  Humph  !  it's  well  named  !  '  License,'  indeed  !  Licensed 


STUDYING   TO   ANSWER.  43 

to  lie,  cheat,  steal, — or,  at  least,  to  help  others  to  do  so, 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  No,  no,  Harry ;  it  may 
be  well  to  know  law  enough  to  keep  from  being  imposed 
upon,  but  a  Bergan  can't  stoop  to  practise  it.  Lawyers 
are,  without  exception,  a  set  of  miserable,  lying,  sneaking 
pettifoggers.  You  could  drop  the  souls  of  a  dozen  into  a 
child's  thimble,  and  they'd  rattle  in  the  end  of  it  after  she 
had  put  it  on  her  finger." 

Bergan's  cheek  flushed  a  little,  but  he  was  more  im 
pressed  by  the  comic  than  the  provoking  side  of  his  uncle's 
dogged  prejudice,  and  he  only  answered,  good-humoredly ; — 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  should  have  had  occasion  to  think 
so  badly  of  the  pi'ofession.  I  shall  feel  that  it  is  incumbent 
upon  me  to  make  you  change  your  opinion." 

"  Never !  "  growled  Major  Bergan,  with  an  oath.  "  You 
would  find  it  easier  to  lift  the  Gibraltar  rock  on  the  point 
of  a  needle.  Unless,"  he  added,  after  a  moment,  "  you  can 
tell  me  how  to  make  a  suit  lie  against  Godfrey  Bergan. 
I've  been  trying  it  for  ten  years,  and  I've  spent  money 
enough  to  buy  another  plantation  as  large  as  this.'* 

"  My  uncle  Godfrey  ! "  exclaimed  Bergan,  in  much  sur 
prise.  "  Why,  what  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  not  call  him  your  '  uncle  Godfrey '  in 
my  hearing,"  responded  the  Major,  grimly.  "  In  ceasing 
to  be  my  half-brother,  he  ceased  to  be  your  uncle.  Done  ! 
What  hasn't  he  done  ?  First,  he  got  his  head  filled  with 
cursed  abolitionist  notions,  and  freed  all  his  slaves.  Next, 
he  offered  the  greater  part  of  his  land  for  sale  at  public  auc 
tion  ; — just  think  of  it !  some  of  the  old  lands  of  Bergan 
Hall  put  up  to  be  knocked  down  to  the  highest  bidder! 
But  I  settled  that  business,  by  proclaiming  far  and  wide 
that  whoever  bid  for  them  might  expect  to  reckon  Avith  me 
for  his  impertinence ;  and  as  I'm  known  to  be  a  man  of  my 
word,  no  one  dared  to  lift  his  voice  at  the  sale,  and  I  got 
them  at  my  own  price.  Finally  Godfrey  capped  the 
Himax  of  his  degeneracy  by  opening  a  hardware  store  in 


44  H OLDEN    WITH   THE   COEDS. 

Berganton.  Think  of  that,  Harry  ! — a  Bergan  of  Bergan 
Hall,  with  a  long  pedigree  of  warriors  and  nobles  at  his 
back,  standing  behind  a  counter,  selling  hoes  and  tea-kettles 
to  negroes  and  crackers  !  " 

Bergan  was  silent.  Though  not  without  some  touch 
of  family  pride,  derived  from  his  mother,  he  had  neverthe 
less  been  taught  to  believe  all  upright  labor  honorable,  to 
hold  that  life  was  ennobled  from  within,  by  its  motive  and 
aim,  rather  than  from  without,  by  its  place  and  form.  He 
could  not  help  suspecting,  therefore,  that  his  host,  deliber 
ately  leading  the  narrow  life  of  an  overseer  of  slaves,  on 
his  ancestral  estate,  was  in  reality  a  more  degenerate  son 
of  his  house  than  the  relative  whom  he  so  bitterly  con 
temned.  Yet  he  foresaw  that  any  attempt  to  defend  God 
frey  Bergan  would  but  result  in  bringing  down  upon  him 
self  a  torrent  of  fierce,  half-drunken  vituperation.  Seasoned 
vessel  though  he  were,  the  Major's  repeated  draughts  of 
brandy,  very  little  diluted,  had  not  been  without  effect,  in 
flushing  his  face,  and  inflaming  his  habitually  irritable  tem 
per.  His  present  mood  would  ill  brook  contradiction. 

Fortunately,  he  neither  expected  nor  waited  for  an 
answer.  Hastily  emptying  his  glass  and  filling  it  again,  he 
went  on. 

"  Now,  Harry,  if  you  can  tell  me  any  way  by  which  I 
can  ruin  his  business,  turn  him  out  of  his  house,  and  make 
him  quit  the  country,  I'll  own  that  I've  done  the  law  an 
injustice,  and  give  you  a  handsome  fee  besides.  Can  the 
thing  be  done?" 

Bergan  silently  shook  his  head ;  he  would  not  trust 
himself  to  speak. 

"  Just  as  I  told  you !  "  exclaimed  the  Major,  with  great 
virulence  of  expression.  "  The  law  has  plenty  of  quibbles 
and  quirks  for  the  help  of  rogues  and  scoundrels,  but  it 
can't  lend  a  hand  to  an  honest  cause,  at  a  pinch !  I'll  none 
of  it,  Harry  !  I'll  none  of  it !  Get  what  you  know  of  it 
out  of  your  head  as  soon  as  you  can." 


STUDYING   TO   ANSWER.  45 

The  Major  paused  long  enough  to  empty  his  glass,  and 
then  resumed,  in  a  more  amiable  tone.  "The  best  thing 
you  can  do,  Harry,  is  to  stay  here  with  me ;  I'll  make  a 
rice-planter  of  you.  It  doesn't  take  a  ninny  for  that,  by 
any  means ;  your  talents  will  not  be  thrown  away.  And 
if  we  suit  each  other, — as  I  think  we  shall, — I'll  give  you 
Bergan  Hall  when  my  title  to  it  expires.  To  be  sure,  I'm 
strong  and  hearty  yet ;  but  no  one  lasts  forever.  And  as 
you  are  named  for  me,  and  I  like  your  looks,  I  would  rather 
give  it  to  you  than  anybody  else.  In  fact,  I've  had  it  in 
my  mind,  for  some  time,  to  write  to  Eleanor  and  ask  her 
to  do  just  what  she  has  done, — send  one  of  her  boys  to  live 
with  me,  and  be  my  heir." 

"  You  mistake,"  said  Bergan,  quickly,  "  neither  ray 
mother  nor  myself  had  any  such  idea.  She  merely  wished 
me  to  consult  you  about  commencing  my  profession  in — " 

"Tut!  tut!  Harry,"  interrupted  his  uncle,  "I meant  it, 
if  you  and  she  did  not.  And  I  mean  it  more  than  ever 
now ;  that  is,  if  you'll  yield  to  my  wish  about  the  law. 
But  if  you  persist  in  sticking  to  that,  I  give  you  up,  once 
for  all — mind,  I  give  you  up  !  " 

"  I  should  deserve  to  be  given  up,"  replied  Bergan, 
smiling,  "  if  I  were  lightly  to  forsake  a  vocation  for  which 
I  am  fitted  both  by  taste  and  education,  to  enter  upon  one 
of  which  I  know  absolutely  nothing.  I  may  reasonably 
hope  to  succeed  as  a  lawyer ;  I  fear  I  should  make  but  a 
poor  planter.  Moreover,  it  would  not  suit  me  to  be  depen 
dent  upon  any  one." 

"  Stuff !  nonsense  !  "  exclaimed  Major  Bergan,  bluntly. 
"  I  defy  you  to  make  a  poor  planter  under  my  tuition, — I 
claim  to  understand  that  business.  As  for  dependence, 
never  you  fear  but  that  I  shall  get  aid  and  comfort  enough 
out  of  you  to  make  our  accounts  square.  For,  after  all, 
Harry,  it  is  a  dreary  kind  of  a  life  that  I'm  leading,  with 
out  chick  or  child,  kith  or  kin,  to  speak  to,  or  to  care  for. 
I  cannot  help  asking  myself,  sometimes,  what  is  the  good 


4:6  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

of  it  all,  and  how  is  it  to  end.  But  with  a  fine  young 
fellow  like  you  here,  to  enter  into  my  plans  now,  and  carry 
them  out  after  I'm  gone, — why,  it  would  be  like  a  fresh 
lease  of  life  to  me  !  We'll  rebuild  the  old  house,  you  shall 
drop  the  '  Arling,'  and  behold  the  seventh  Harry  Bergan  of 
Bergan  Hall,  on  this  side  the  water !  And  really,  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  do  better,  Harry.  Here  are  wealth,  posi 
tion,  influence,  and  a  chance  to  oblige  your  old  uncle, — ready 
to  your  hand.  Stay,  my  boy,  stay  ! " 

The  Major's  bluff  voice  Lad  sunken  to  a  hoarse  tone  of 
sadness,  in  his  confession  of  loneliness,  and  finally,  to  one 
of  entreaty,  that  touched  his  nephew's  heart.  Nor  was 
the  prospect  held  up  before  him  without  its  own  pecu 
liar  and  powerful  attraction.  He  looked  thoughtfully  into 
the  lire,  debating  with  himself  what  and  how  he  should 
reply.  His  uncle  watched  him  keenly  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  in  his  kindest  tone  and  manner; — 

"  Well,  Harry,  I  won't  press  you  for  an  answer,  now. 
Stay  here  a  month  or  two,  and  look  around  you ;  and 
then,  we'll  talk  the  matter  over  again,  and  see  if  we  cannot 
settle  upon  something  that  shall  be  mutually  satisfactory. 
For  so  long,  surely,  you  can  afford  to  be  my  guest." 


III. 

"  PATTEKK    OF    OLD    FIDELITY." 

BEFORE  Bergan  could  answer,  there  came  a  low  tap 
at  the  door.  A  negro  woman,  of  unusual  height, 
and  singularly  venerable  and  dignified  aspect,  stood, 
courtesying  slightly,  on  the  threshold.  She  was  plainly  of 
great  age, — her  face  was  deeply  furrowed,  and  her  hair, 
where  it  could  be  seen  under  the  dark  blue  kerchief  that 
covered  her  head,  was  white  as  snow, — yet  her  shoulders 
had  not  bent  under  the  burden  of  years,  her  tall  frame, 
though  gaunt,  was  little  palsied  by  the  touch  of  actual 
infirmity.  Although  she  carried  a  cane,  it  was  not  so  much 
for  its  support,  as  for  its  aid  in  feeling  out  her  way  along 
her  accustomed  paths  ;  she  had  been  blind  for  many  years. 

"  Master  Harry,"  said  she,  clasping  her  hands  over  the 
head  of  her  cane,  and  speaking  in  slow,  somewhat  tremu 
lous  tones,  but  with  neither  the  slovenly  utterance  nor  the 
vicious  pronunciation  of  the  ordinary  slave, — "  Master 
Harry,  excuse  me  if  I  interrupt  you,  but  I  could  not  wait 
any  longer, — I  wanted  so  much  to  see  Miss  Eleanor's  son ! " 

"  It  is  Maumer  Rue,"  said  Major  Bergan,  not  only  with 
umvonted  kindness  of  tone,  but  with  something  akin  to 
respect  in  his  manner ; — "  your  mother  must  have  spoken 
to  you  of  our  old  nurse,  Harry  ?  " 

"  Indeed  she  has  !  "  exclaimed  Bergan,  earnestly,  start 
ing  up  to  take  the  blind  woman's  hand.  "  Your  name  has 
always  been  a  household  word  with  us.  The  story  of  your 
devotion  to  my  mother,  in  saving  her  from  the  flames, 
at  the  risk  of  your  own  life,  and  with  the  ultimate  loss 
of  your  sight,  was  the  one  story  of  which  we  children 


48  HOLPEN    WITH    THE   C'JRDS. 

never  used  to  tire.  Probably  we  felt,  in  our  vague, 
childish  way,  that  it  was  the  one  Avhich  came  from  the 
profoundest  depth  in  her  own  heart, — since  she  could 
never  tell  it  to  us  without  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice, 
and  a  soft  dewiness  in  her  eyes, — and  that  was  the  secret 
of  its  charm  for  us.  You  may  be  sure  that  she  has  never 
forgotten  how  much  she  owes  you  !  " 

The  old  woman's  lips  trembled,  and  large  tears  gathered 
in  her  sightless  eyes.  "  The  Lord  bless  my  dear  young 
lady  !  "  she  ejaculated  fervently, — "  I  knew  she  would 
never  foi'get  her  old  maumer.  And  it's  like  her  to  make 
much  of  my  little  service ;  but  I  did  nothing  but  what  was 
my  duty — nothing." 

"  She  thinks  otherwise,"  replied  Bergan,  kindly.  "She 
regards  it  as  one  of  those  rare  instances  of  courage  and 
devotion,  for  which  the  whole  world  is  better  and  brighter. 
She  bade  me  give  you  her  kindest  love,  and  tell  you  that 
you  must  not  despair  of  meeting  her  once  more,  even  on 
this  side  the  grave.  When  the  new  railroad  is  finished,  as 
far  as  our  place, — which  it  promises  to  be  in  a  year  or  two, 
— she  fully  intends  to  revisit  her  childhood's  home,  and 
look  once  more  upon  the  faces  of  her  childhood's  friends. 
She  furthermore  charged  me  to  pay  you  an  early  visit,  in 
your  own  quarters,  and  tell  you  everything  about  her  west 
ern  home  and  life  that  you  might  care  to  hear." 

"  How  kind  of  Miss  Eleanor  to  think  of  that !  "  re 
sponded  the  blind  woman,  delightedly.  "  It  shows  that 
she's  just  her  own  old  self,  always  trying  to  think  what 
everybody  would  like,  and  then  doing  her  best  to  give  it 
to  them.  Of  course,  there's  a  hundred  questions  that  I 
should  like  to  ask  about  her ;  and  if  you  really  don't  mind 
answering  them,  and  will  do  me  the  honor  to  step  into  my 
little  cabin,  some  day  when  you're  passing  by,  I  shall  be 
more  obliged  to  you  than  I  can  rightly  tell.  But  as  to  my 
ever  seeing  Miss  Eleanor  again, — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ; 
you  see  I've  not  yet  learned  to  say  Mrs.  Arling, — though 


"  PATTERN   OF   OLD   FIDELITY."  49 

there's  nothing  on  earth  that  would  make  me  so  glad  as  to 
meet  her  again,  and  hear  the  sound  of  her  sweet,  cheery 
voice,  yet  I'm  getting  to  be  too  old  to  dare  to  reckon  much 
upon  the  future.  But  the  next  best  thing  to  meeting  her, 
is  to  meet  her  son,  here  on  the  old  place ;  and  I  thank  the 
Lord  that  He  has  let  me  live  long  enough  for  that." 

The  old  negress  bent  her  head  devoutly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  to  Major  Bergan.  "  Does  he  favor  Miss 
Eleanor  much,  Master  Harry  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  good  deal  like  her,  maumer ;  he  has  her 
eyes  exactly.  But  he  is  even  more  like  what  I  was  forty 
years  ago  ;  it  really  makes  me  feel  young  again  to  look  at 
him.  He's  a  real  Bergan,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

Maumer  Rue  smiled  as  if  well  pleased  ;  yet  the  smile 
seemed  a  little  burdened  with  s'adness,  too ;  and  Bergan 
saw  that  it  was  followed  by  a  look  of  extreme  wistfulness. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  he  asked,  kindly. 

"  Nothing,  master, — unless — if  it  is  not  asking  too 
much, — and  if  you  ivould  not  mind  the  touch  of  an  old 
woman's  fingers,  that  have  to  serve  her  instead  of  eyes, 
I  could  get  so  much  clearer  an  idea  of  your  looks, — "  and 
she  finished  the  sentence  by  raising  her  hand  significantly 
toward  his  face. 

Bergan  was  much  moved.  "  Of  course  I  should  not 
mind,"  said  he,  di-awing  near  to  her  ; — "  examine  me  as 
closely  as  you  like.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  there 
were  anything  unpleasant  to  me  in  the  touch  of  hands  that 
have  done  so  much  for  my  mother  !  " 

"  It's  easy  to  see  that  you  are  Miss  Eleanor's  son,  you 
have  just  her  kind,  pleasant  ways,"  responded  the  blind 
woman,  gratefully.  "  He  is  a  little  taller  than  you,  Master 
Harry,"  she  continued,  turning  toward  the  Major,  as  she 
laid  her  hand  on  Bergan's  head, — "  yes,  just  a  little  taller, 
though  not  much." 

"  All  the  better  for  that,"  remarked  the  Major,  paren 
thetically,  "  the  Bergans  must  not  degenerate." 
3 


50  HOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

Maumer  Rue  went  on,  without  noticing  the  interrup 
tion  ;  passing  her  fingers  lightly  over  Bergan's  features,  as 
she  spoke.  "  His  brow  is  square  and  full,  like  yours,  and 
he  has  the  same  straight  nose  ;  but  his  eyes  are  not  so 
deep-set,  nor  his  eyebrows  so  heavy.  His  jaw  is  like  yours, 
too, — the  set,  square  jaw  of  the  Bergans, — but  his  mouth 
is  more  like  Miss  Eleanor's  : — a  sweet,  pleasant  mouth  she 
had,  the  mouth  of  the  Habershams,  her  mother's  family. 
Yet  it  could  be  firm  enough,  too,  when  there  was  need  ; 
our  Miss  Eleanor  had  plenty  of  character.  And  I'm  right 
glad  to  see  that  you  are  so  much  like  her;  you  couldn't 
resemble  any  one  better  or  handsomer." 

She  made  a  slight  pause,,  and  then  added,  in  a  half- 
humorous  way, — "  I  reckon  she  couldn't  give  you  any 
spice  of  the  '  black  Bergan  temper,'  as  she  had  none  of  it 
herself." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  did,"  answered  Bergan,  laughing,  yet 
coloring,  too ;  "  and  many  a  scrape  it  has  gotten  me  into, 
before  now.  But  I  hope  that  I  am  learning  to  control  it  a 
little." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should,"  broke  in  the  Major, 
gruffly.  "  The  Bergan  temper  is  an  heir-loom  to  be  proud 
of;  it  identifies  the  breed.  It  has  run  in  the  blood  from 
time  immemorial.  A  Bergan  without  it — that  is,  a  male, 
of  course  a  woman  counts  for  nothing — would  be  no  Ber 
gan  at  all." 

"  You  say  true,  Master  Harry,"  rejoined  Rue,  com 
posedly  ;  "  it's  always  run  in  the  blood,  and  heated  it 
more  than  was  good  for  it,  many  a  time.  Yet,  now  and 
then,  there  has  been  a  Bergan  who  has  learned  how  to 
keep  it  under,  and  been  all  the  better  for  doing  it.  You 
surely  must  recollect  what  a  mild,  kind  gentleman  your 
father  was,  young  as  you  were  when  he  died  ;  and  I've 
heard  say  that  there  never  was  a  truer  Bergan,  or  one 
more  respected  all  the  country  through." 

The  Major  made  a  grimace,  and  muttered  something 


"  PATTEKN    OF   OLD   FIDELITY."  51 

unintelligible,  in  a  tone  half  of  acquiescence,  half  of  irrita 
tion. 

Rue  turned  again  to  Bergan.  "You  have  been  very 
patient  with  an  old  woman's  talk,  and  an  old  woman's  in- 
lirmity,"  said  she,  with  a  kind  of  natural  dignity, — "I  will 
not  trouble  you  any  longer.  Good  night,  and  thank  you, 
Master — what  name  shall  I  say  ?  " 

Bergan  hesitated,  and  looked  doubtfully  at  his  uncle. 

"  He  says  his  name  is  Bergan,"  explained  the  Major, 
shortly  ;  "  but  I  have  given  him  to  understand  that  he  is 
to  be  known  by  my  own  name,  Harry,  while  he  stays  here." 

Rue  shook  her  head.  "  There  can  be  but  one  Master 
Harry  for  me,"  she  said  quietly, — "  the  one  that  I  nursed 
as  a  babe  and  petted  as  a  child,  the  one  that  I  have  lived 
with  so  many  years,  and  who  has  always  been  so  kind  to 
me — kinder  even  than  he  has  been  to  himself.  So  please 
let  me  call  him  Master  Bergan  ;  but,  of  course,  the  rest  of 
the  people  will  give  him  any  name  that  you  say." 

"  Of  course  they  will,"  returned  the  Major,  haughtily, 
"  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why.  As  for  you,  maumer,  I 
shall  let  you  do  as  you  please  ;  you've  had  your  own  way 
too  long  to  be  balked  of  it  now.  But  take  care  that  the 
others  don't  hear  and  imitate  you, — or  you  know  what 
they'll  get." 

"  Thank  you,  Master  Harry,"  replied  Rue,  as  gratefully 
as  if  the  assent  had  been  more  graciously  given, — "  you  are 
always  good  to  your  poor  old  maumer.  Good  night." 
And  she  turned  to  go. 

But  on  the  threshold,  she  paused,  and  lifted  her  sight 
less  face  toward  the  dim  night-sky,  across  which  dark  clouds 
were  swiftly  scudding. 

"  Master  Harry,"  said  she,  suddenly,  "  do  you  remem 
ber  how  I  told  you,  six  months  ago,  that  the  Bergan  star 
was  set,  and  how  angry  you  were  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember,"  exclaimed  the  Major,  hoarsely 
and  eagerly, — "  what  of  it  ?  " 


52  IIOLDEN   WITH    THE   COKDS. 

She  slowly  raised  her  right  hand,  and  pointed  skyward, 
with  a  strange,  intent,  watchful  expression  in  her  uplifted 
face.  "See!  it  is  rising!"  said  she;  " it  comes  up  through 
the  clouds, — they  try  to  hold  it  back,  but  they  cannot, — 
it  grows  bi'ighter  !  it  rises  higher  ! — ah  !  " — drawing  her 
breath  hard  and  gaspingly, — "  it  stops — it  goes  down 
again  ! — the  clouds  cover  it ! — it  is — No  !  it  is  not  gone  ! 
it  shines  faintly  behind  the  clouds — it  breaks  through — 
slowly,  slowly,  slowly, — it  rises  !  it  rises  !  " 

Yielding,  half-unconsciously,  to  the  powerful  influence 
of  the  blind  woman's  rapt,  ecstatic  manner,  Bergan  had 
drawn  near  to  her,  and  now  saw,  with  surprise,  a  single 
star  shining  for  a  moment  through  the  rifts  of  the  clouds. 
Glancing  at  the  Major,  whom  he  had  before  seen  to  be 
hanging  with  breathless  interest  upon  the  words  of  the  old 
negress,  he  perceived  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it  also, 
with  a  gaze  that  was  half-awed,  half-triumphant.  He  knew 
not  what  to  think. 

Maumer  Rue  still  stood  in  the  same  commanding  atti 
tude,  with  raised  hand,  and  intent,  uplooking  face.  Sud 
denly,  her  arm  fell  by  her  side ;  her  head  drooped  on  her 
breast ;  the  majesty  that  had  informed  her  pose  and  ges 
ture  went  out  like  an  expiring  flame  ;  she  shivered,  .tot 
tered,  and  would  have  fallen  but  for  the  Major's  prompt 
support.  Without  a  word,  he  guided  her  safely  to  the  door 
of  her  cabin. 

Coming  back,  he  reseated  himself  at  the  table,  which 
had  been  cleared  of  everything  but  the  bottles  and  glasses, 
and  hastily  poured  out  and  swallowed  some  raw  brandy. 
Then  he  remarked,  in  a  half-explanatory  and  half-apologetic 
tone, — 

"  She  enjoys  the  reputation  of  a  seer,  or  prophetess, 
among  the  negroes  ;  and  I  really  think  she  has  some  faith 
in  it  herself.  Certainly,  she  seems  to  have  strange  visions 
now  and  then  ;  and  some  of  her  predictions  have  come 
true ;  I  confess  she  puzzles  even  me.  At  all  events,  she  is 


"  PATTERN   OF   OLD   FIDELITY."  53 

the  best  and  most  faithful  old  creature  that  ever  lived. 
She  was  born  on  the  estate,  brought  up  in  the  Hall  with 
my  father  and  his  sisters,  shared  their  education,  is  thor 
oughly  steeped  in  the  family  traditions,  duly  infected  with 
the  family  pride,  and  entirely  devoted  to  the  family  inter 
ests.  She  is  the  only  person  that  I  allow  to  do  pretty 
much  as  she  pleases ;  her  long  and  faithful  services  to  my 
father,  Eleanor,  and  myself,  deserve  that  much,  I  think. 
And  really,  she  is  of  great  use  to  me ;  I  scarcely  know 
what  I  should  do  without  her.  The  negroes  all  believe  her 
to  be  a  hundred  years  old — undoubtedly  she  is  past  ninety 
— and  that,  together  with  her  reputation  as  a  prophetess, 
gives  her  great  power  over  them,  and  saves  me  a  heap  of 
trouble  in  managing  them.  She  has  very  good  judgment, 
too,  in  many  things ;  I  frequently  take  her  advice,  and 
never  yet  had  occasion  to  regret  doing  so.  Indeed,  it  was 
chiefly  at  her  instigation  and  entreaty  that  I  had  made  up 
my  mind,  as  I  told  you,  to  write  to  your  mother  about 
sending  me  one  of  her  sons." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  asked,  in  a  careless 
tone,  but  with  a  quick,  keen  glance  at  his  nephew,  from  un 
der  his  shaggy  brows, — "  Did  you  see  that  star  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Bergan.  "It  was  a  curious  coinci 
dence." 

"  Hum — very,"  returned  his  uncle,  evidently  not  quite 
satisfied  with  this  view  of  the  matter.  But  he  said  no 
more. 

The  conversation  now  turned  into  various  other  chan 
nels.  It  touched  for  a  brief  space  upon  the  indefatigable 
quoter  of  proverbs  whom  Bergan  had  overtaken  on  his  way 
to  the  Hall ;  and  whom  the  Major  declared  to  be  the  only 
living  representative  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  influ 
ential  families  in  the  county.  He  had  been  reared  in  afflu 
ence,  had  been  educated  in  Europe,  and  had  inherited  a 
large  fortune  and  a  fine  estate.  But  he  had  early  fallen 
into  bad  habits, — not  so  much  from  viciousness  of  temper 


5-i  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

and  taste,  as  from  weakness  of  will  and  consequent  inabil 
ity  to  resist  temptation, — had  run  a  short,  rapid  career  of 
folly,  extravagance,  and  dissipation,  in  which  he  had  frit 
tered  away  his  inheritance,  and  so  had  gradually  sunken 
into  his  present  state  qf  semi-vagabondage.  He  lived,  by 
sufferance,  in  a  little  cabin,  on  one  corner  of  the  estate 
which  he  had  formerly  owned.  From  his  wholesale  ship 
wreck  of  fortune,  position,  will,  energy,  and  hope,  he  had 
saved  but  one  thing — his  love  of  proverbs.  It  had  even 
grown  stronger  in  proportion  as  other  things  wasted  and 
failed, — like  a  plant  striking  deep  root  into  soil  enriched 
by  the  decay  of  many  sister  plants.  He  had  learned  sev 
eral  languages  solely  for  the  sake  of  their  proverbs ;  he 
had  even  been  seen  to  hesitate  and  waver  long  between 
the  diverse,  but  powerful,  attractions  of  a  bottle  of  ardent 
spirits  and  a  dingy,  old  collection  of  saws,  when  but  one 
came  within  the  compass  of  his  purse  ;  and  he  was  known 
far  and  wide  by  the  sobriquet  of  "Proverb  Dick."  His 
real  name  was  Richard  Causton. 

In  listening  to  this  history,  Bergan  could  not  but  be 
struck  by  the  curiously  discriminating  character  of  the 
Major's  animadversion.  He  had  little,  or  nothing,  to  say 
in  disapproval  of  the  depraved  arid  ungovernable  appetite 
for  strong  drink  which,  it  was  easy  to  see,  had  played  so 
important  part  in  ruining  poor  Richard  Causton  ;  while  he 
could  find  no  words  strong  enough  to  express  his  bitter 
contempt  for  the  flabby  will,  the  pitiable  irresolution,  and 
the  insane  extravagance,  which  had  joined  hands  with  that 
appetite  for  his  complete  destruction.  Tender,  as  a  mother 
to  her  babe,  over  the  fault  which  he  knew  himself  to  pos 
sess  (if  he  secretly  acknowledged  it  to  be  a  fault),  Major 
Beriran  was  merciless  to  the  weaknesses  from  which  he 

O 

was  saved  by  a  hardier  will  and  a  more  energetic  tempera 
ment. 

But  as  the  evening  wore  on,  and  the  brandy  slowly 
worked  its  way  up  to  the  stronghold  of  his  brain,  the  Ma- 


"  PATTERN    OF   OLD   FIDELITY."  55 

jor's  talk  grew  discursive,  profane,  and  incoherent ;  until 
Bcrgan,  shocked  and  pained,  and  anxious  to  escape  from 
the  mortifying  spectacle,  pleaded  fatigue,  and  begged  per 
mission  to  retire.  Jip  was  accordingly  summoned,  and  he 
was  conducted  to  a  little,  low  room  under  the  cottage  roof, 
where  his  portmanteau  had  been  bestowed,  and  some  little 
provision  made  for  his  comfort. 

Here  Bergan  quickly  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  to  find, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  it  was  one  thing  to  woo 
the  fair  maiden  Sleep,  and  another  to  win  her.  Recollec 
tions  of  his  western  home,  of  his  mother,  of  the  ancestral 
traditions  on  which  his  childish  imagination  had  fed,  of  his 
youthful  studies  and  aspirations,  of  his  recent  journey,  and 
the  disappointment  in  which  it  had  ended,  mingled  with 
half-conceived  plans  and  half-acknowledged  hopes, —  a 
vague,  changeable,  teasing,  tireless  procession  of  thoughts 
and  images, — filed  slowly  through  his  rnind,  compelling  his 
reluctant  gaze,  and  blocking  up  every  avenue  to  Slumber- 
land.  And  if,  for  an  instant,  the  vexing  march  stopped, 
and  the  importunate  images  began  to  waver  and  blend, 
sounds  of  stamping  feet,  of  jingling  glass,  of  muttered 
oaths  and  sentences,  or  two  or  three  half-sung,  half-shouted 
lines  of  a  drunken  ditty,  coming  up  from  below,  startled 
him  once  more  into  wakefulness,  and  told  him  that  his  un 
cle's  solitary  debauch  was  not  yet  ended.  It  was  already 
gray  dawn  when,  worn  out  with  restlessness,  he  fell  into  a 
brief  slumber,  and  dreamed  that  old  Rue,  with  the  Ber 
gan  star  in  her  hand,  was  beckoning  him  to  follow  her  over 
a  dreary,  desolate  country,  full  of  briers  and  pitfalls, 
wherein  he  was  so  constantly  entangled  that,  in  spite  of 
his  best  endeavors,  he  could  never  get  any  nearer  to  her. 
Turning  suddenly,  she  flashed  the  star  into  his  eyes,  and — 
oh,  horror  of  horrors  ! — he  was  blind  ! 

Starting  \ip,  all  in  a  tremble,  he  found  that  the  risen 
sun  was  shining  full  in  his  face,  through  the  uncurtained 
window.  It  was  morning. 


IV. 

A   GOODLY    HERITAGE. 

EARLY  as  was  the  hour,  Bergan  found  the  table  already 
laid  for  breakfast  in  the  room  below,  where  he  was 
soon  joined  by  the  Major.  He  brought  with  him 
(besides  a  noticeable  odor  of  brandy),  a  cordial  morning 
greeting,  and  a  temper  which,  though  by  no  means  urbane, 
had  a  certain  flavor  of  bluff  good  nature,  in  pleasing  con 
trast  with  his  exti'eme  irritability  of  the  preceding  evening. 
Encouraged  by  these  and  similar  signs  of  a  clearer  mental 
atmosphere,  Bergan  ventured  to  mention  his  uncle  God 
frey,  and  to  remark  that  he  had  been  chai'ged  with  a  letter 
to  him  from  his  mother,  which  he  must  take  an  early  op 
portunity  to  deliver. 

"  Eh  !  what  ?  "  asked  the  Major,  laying  down  his  knife 
and  fork,  with  the  look  and  tone  of  a  man  who  doubts  the 
evidence  of  his  own  senses. 

Bergan  quietly  repeated  his  words. 

The  Major's  face  grew  dark,  and  his  eyebrows  met  in  a 
heavy  frown.  "  I  shall  take  it  mighty  hard  of  you,  if  you 
do,"  said  he,  sternly  and  gloomily.  "  I  tell  you,  Harry,  he 
is  no  Bergan  at  all,  and  he  ought  not  to  be  treated  like 
one.  Eleanor  would  never  have  written  to  him,  nor  desired 
you  to  visit  him,  if  she  had  known  the  true  state  of  affairs ; 
— you  can  safely  take  that  for  granted,  and  act  accordingly. 
Besides,"  he  went  on,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  it  is  only  fair 
to  warn  you  that  any  one  who  goes  from  Bergan  Hall  over 
to  Oakstead  (that's  what  he  calls  his  place),  doesn't  come 
back  again, — with  my  consent.  There's  no  relation,  nor 


A   GOODLY    HERITAGE.  57 

commerce,  nor  sympathy,  nor  liking,  between  the  two 
places ;  and  there  never  can  be  any  while  I  live, — nor  after 
I  am  dead,  either,  if  I  can  help  it.  So  just  put  that  matter 
out  of  your  head,  Harry,  and  say  no  more  about  it." 

Bergan  looked  down,  and  the  color  rose  to  his  brow. 
Without  seeking  to  know  the  merits  of  the  quarrel  between 
his  two  uncles,  he  nevertheless  felt  that  the  abject  submis 
sion,  the  complete  surrender  of  principle  and  will,  expected 
of  him  by  Major  Bergan,  was  simply  impossible ;  and  he 
began  to  wonder  if  it  were  not  his  wisest  course  to  place 
himself  at  once  on  tenable  ground,  by  saying  that,  while 
he  should  always  be  glad  of  his  uncle's  advice,  and  ready 
to  give  all  due  and  respectful  consideration  to  his  wishes, 
yet,  in  matters  involving  questions  of  right  and  duty,  the 
final  appeal  must  needs  be  to  his  own  conscience.  Some 
thing  of  this  sort  was  upon  his  lips,  when  the  Major  spoke 
again,  and  in  a  more  amiable  tone. 

"  I  am  really  sorry,  for  your  sake,  Harry,  that  things 
are  just  »s  they  are,"  said  he.  "  Of  course,  it  is  not  agree 
able  to  you  to  run  thus  unexpectedly  against  a  family  feud ; 
— I  really  ought  to  have  written  Eleanor  about  it,  but  I 
thought  to  spare  her  the  knowledge  of  her  half-brother's 
disgrace.  Besides,  as  Godfrey  is  our  nearest  neighbor,  it 
might  be  pleasant  to  be  on  visiting  terms,  if  he  and  his 
were  only  the  right  sort  of  company  to  keep." 

"  I  think  he  has  children  near  my  own  age,"  remarked 
Bergan. 

"  Not  now.     His  two  eldest  died  a  few  years  ago." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  I  remember  hearing  of  it  when  I  was  in  col 
lege." 

"He  has  but  one  left— a  daughter,"  pursued  the  Major. 
"  A  pretty,  bright  little  thing  she  was,  too,  as  a  child ;  I 
was  really  quite  fond  of  her,  and  she  used  to  spend  half 
her  time  here, — that  is,  in  the  old  Hall ; — and  Maumer  Rue 
almost  idolized  her,  because  she  fancied  that  she  was  some 
thing  like  what  Eleanor  was  at  her  age.  She  even  used  to 
3*  **-- 


58  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

run  away  and  come  over  here,  after  the  trouble  began  ;  but 
I  reckon  they  must  have  found  it  out,  and  put  a  stop  to  it." 
And  the  Major  ground  Ins  teeth  at  the  recollection,  as  if 
he  owed  his  brother  an  especial  grudge  on  this  very  head. 
"However,"  he  went  on,  "it  is  better  so;  for  though  I 
could  never  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  be  unkind  to  the 
child, — so  fond  of  me  as  she  was,  too  ! — yet  I  want  nothing 
to  do  with  anybody,  or  anything,  that  belongs  to  Godfrey ; 
and  so  I  am  glad,  on  the  whole,  that  she  stopped  coming. 
Doubtless,  she  will  soon  merge  the  name  of  Bergan  into 
Smith,  or  Brown,  or  something  equally  desirable ;  and  as 
Godfrey  has  no  son,  to  bear  his  patronymic  and  carry  on  his 
business,  we  may  hope  that  there  will  be  an  end  of  them." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  ineffable  contempt. 
Then,  suddenly  rising,  as  if  to  dismiss  the  subject,  the 
Major  remarked,  with  an  entire  change  of  tone  and  man 
ner  : — 

"  But  I  must  not  sit  here  chatting  any  longer,  for  I  sus 
pect  that  Ben — that's  my  head  driver — is  waiting  for  in 
structions.  Will  you  come  with  me,  or  do  you  prefer  to 
amuse  yourself  about  home  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  uncle,  if  you  are  willing." 
"  Both  willing  and  glad.  Come  on." 
Bergan  followed  his  uncle  out  into  the  quadrangle, — 
here  called  the  "  street," — and  found  it  to  be,  for  the  most 
part,  silent  and  deserted.  The  cabins,  many  of  which,  on 
the  evening  previous,  had  been  brightened  by  a  little  gleam 
of  firelight  within,  or  vivified  by  moving  figures,  were  now 
closed  and  locked,  the  occupants  being  away  at  work  in 
the  fields.  They  were  all  neatly  whitewashed ;  and  they 
stood  well  apart  from  each  other,  leaving  room  for  little 
gardens  between,  where  vegetables,  and,  occasionally, 
flowers,  were  growing.  Here  and  there,  too,  a  pig  rooted 
and  grunted  in  a  rude  sty;  or  hens  and  chickens  fluttered 
and  cackled,  in  their  busy,  enlivening  fashion,  around  the 
door. 


A    GOODLY    HERITAGE.  Ot> 

One  of  the  buildings,  of  considerable  size,  and  two  sto 
ries  high,  where  several  women  and  children,  wi'h  pecu 
liar  haggard,  heavy,  listless,  and  withal  resigned  faces,  were 
lying  or  sitting  around  the  porch,  Bergan  easily  recognized 
as  the  infirmary.  Another,  seemingly  stuffed  with  babies 
and  young  children,  under  the  charge  of  several  half-grown 
girls  and  one  superannuated  old  woman,  he  knew  to  be  the 
day-nursery ;  for  the  safe  bestowal  of  the  infant  population 
of  the  quarter,  during  their  mothers'  absence  in  the  fields. 
Here,  Maumer  Rue  seemed  to  be  making  a  visit  of  inspec 
tion  ;  though  invisible  herself,  the  slow  tones  of  her  voice, 
exhorting  one  of  the  young  nurses  to  greater  watchfulness, 
sounded  distinctly  from  within  ;  and  becoming  quickly 
aware  of  the  approach  of  her  master  and  his  guest,  she 
came  to  the  door,  and  made  them  a  stately  courtesy,  as 
they  passed. 

Quite  apart  from  the  quarter,  yet  within  sight,  stood  a 
cabin  of  especially  rude  and  forlorn  aspect ;  the  open  door 
of  which  disclosed  a  strong  stake  driven  into  the  ground 
in  its  centre,  and  divers  rusty  chains,  handcuffs,  padlocks, 
et  ccetera,  hanging  round  its  sides.  This  was  the  prison. 
Human  justice  being  thus  provided  with  a  fitting  abode, 
Bergan  involuntarily  looked  around  in  search  of  a  corre 
sponding  dwelling  for  Heaven's  mercy,  in  the  shape  of  a 
little  cross-tipped  church  or  chapel, — but  saw  none. 

Major  Bergan  first  stopped  at  the  threshing-mill,  where 
Engine  (that  is  to  say  "  Engineer ")  Jack,  a  remarkably 
intelligent  negro, — and  an  exceedingly  black  one  as  well, — 
was  waiting  to  bring  to  his  master's  notice  certain  slight 
repairs  necessary  to  the  machinery.  While  the  needful 
discussion  was  going  on,  Bergan  looked  around  him,  the 
better  to  understand  the  topography  of  the  place. 

He  observed  that  Bergan  Hall,  the  roof  of  which  he 
sa\v  afar  off,  rising  among  the  trees,  was  situated  upon  a 
considerable  elevation, — a  sort  of  bluff,  overlooking  a  small 
inlet,  or  arm  of  the  sea.  To  this  circumstance,  Major 


60  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

Bergan  owed  his  ability  to  live  upon  his  plantation  through 
out  the  year,  instead  of  fleeing  therefrom,  like  most  of  his 
class,  at  the  approach  of  summer.  For,  just  when  the 
home-scenery  takes  on  its  most  tender  and  fascinating 
grace, — when  the  rice-fields  are  green  as  the  meadows  of 
paradise, — when  the  temple-like  oak-glades  are  most  beau 
tiful  with  gentle  gloom  and  glinting  sunshine, — when  every 
thicket  has  its  garland  of  bloom,  and  every  tree  has  its 
clinging,  flowering  vine, — when  the  sweet-smelling  pine- 
woods  are  glittering  with  the  gorgeous  coloring,  and  melo 
dious  with  the  multifarious  voice,  of  thousands  of  birds 
and  insects; — just  then,  the  rice-planter  has  to  flee  for  his 
life  from  its  final,  treacherous  charm — the  soft-shining  mist, 
the  deadly  malaria,  that  creeps  up  at  night  from  the 
marshes,  and  covers  the  land  like  a  sea.  If  he  lingers  for 
but  one  ramble  in  the  fair,  moon-lighted,  and  moss-festooned 
avenues,  through  that  silver  haze,  fever  walks  by  his  side 
under  the  grand  arches,  and  death  waits  for  him  at  the  end 
of  the  alluring  vistas. 

From  this  terror  and  this  necessity,  the  owner  of  Ber 
gan  Hall  was  free.  His  vast  plantation  stretched  across 
the  border-line  which  divides  the  pestilential  rice-swamps 
from  the  healthful  sea-islands ;  one  extremity  touching  the 
river,  and  the  other  the  ocean.  Atone  time,  its  chief  reve 
nue  was  derived  from  the  far-famed  sea-island  cotton,  to 
the  production  of  which  its  sea-board  portion  was  well- 
adapted,  but  as  that  crop  declined,  and  the  rice-crop  rose, 
in  value,  its  neglected  swamp-lands  were  gradually  re 
claimed  and  brought  under  cultivation  ;  and  were  now  the 
most  valuable  portion  of  the  estate.  Too  remote  from 
1-ergan  Hall  to  poison  it,  or  its  vicinity,  with  their  malaria, 
they  were  yet  quite  near  enough  for  necessary  superintend 
ence. 

The  negro  quarter  lay  somewhat  lower  than  the  Hall. 
On  its  left,  the  ground  sloped  gradually  down  to  a  little 
creek ;  where  lay  several  flat-boats  loaded  with  rice,  to 


A   GOODLY   HERITAGE.  61 

show  what  had  been  the  goal  of  the  negro  procession  of 
the  previous  even-ing.  Along  the  opposite  bank  ran  a  dark 
fringe  of  pines. 

Horses  were  now  brought.  The  one  assigned  to  Bergan 
was  a  superb  blooded  filly,  full  of  life  and  fire.  While  he 
stood  taking  delighted  note  of  her  many  fine  points,  she 
sniffed  round  him  in  half-wild,  half-curious  fashion, — now 
starting  quickly  back,  now  timidly  drawing  near, — and 
ended  by  frankly  putting  her  nose  in  his  hand,  as  if  in  to 
ken  of  amity.  Nor  had  he  been  long  on  her  back,  ere  'he 
felt,  with  an  electric  thrill  of  pleasure,  that  perfect  sympa 
thy  between  horse  and  rider,  that  singular  blending  of 
their  identity,  which  is  the  purest  delight  of  horsemanship, 
and  best  explains  the  fable  of  the  Ccntaur.x 

"  How  do  you  like  her  ?  "  asked  his  uncle,  at  this  junc 
ture. 

"  Exceedingly,"  replied  Bergan,  with  enthusiastic  em 
phasis.  "I  think  that  I  never  rode  anything  more  ad 
mirable." 

"  Henceforth,  then,  she  belongs  to  you.  And  never 
mind  the  thanks, — I  am  really  glad  to  hand  her  over  to 
a  fitting  master.  She  is  too  much  given  to  dancing  and 
frolicking  for  my  use, — my  sober-paced  stallion  meets  my 
wants  a  gi-eat  deal  better; — consequently,  Vic — that's  her 
name,  short  for  Victoria, — Vic  stands  in  the  stable,  eating 
her  head  and  kicking  her  heels  off,  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  time.  She  will  be  much  happier  in  the  hands  of  a 
master  young  enough  to  sympathize  with  her." 

Bergan  could  not  fail  to  be  delighted  with  a  gift  so  gen 
erous  and  so  timely;  bestowed,  too,  with  a  delicacy  of 
manner,  an  appearance  of  asking  a  favor  instead  of  confer 
ring  one,  in  strong  contrast  with  his  uncle's  wonted  blunt- 
ness.  Visions  of  long,  solitary  rides  of  exploration  rose 
fascinatingly  before  him.  Nor  would  he  suffer  his  pleasure 
to  be  alloyed  by  any  insidious  doubt  lest  the  gift  might 
some  day  take  the  form  of  an  unpleasant  obligation. 


62  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   COEDS. 

The  road  ran  along  the  bank  of  the  creek,  passing 
divers  fields  under  cultivation,  and  divers  others  long 
"  turned  out," — that  is,  exhausted,  and  left  to  lapse  back  into 
their  primitive  pine-barrenness.  In  the  course  of  an  hour,  the 
two  gentlemen  came  upon  a  second  negro  quarter,  consider 
ably  larger  than  the  first,  but  with  the  same  general  char 
acteristics,  even  to  the  threshing-mill.  This  one,  however, 
ran  by  water  power,  instead  of  steam. 

The  horses  were  here  left  in  charge  of  a  negro,  while 
the  gentlemen  walked  over  to  the  rice  fields.  They  soon 
came  into  view,  stretching,  almost  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  along  the  bank  of  a  broad,  turbid  river.  Bergan 
speedily  became  much  interested  in  their  complicated  sys 
tem  of  dykes,  ditches,  canals,  and  gates ;  as  well  as  in 
watching  the  dusky  laborers,  both  men  and  women,  that 
were  busy  therein.  Leaving  details  for  results,  however,  he 
could  not  but  be  impressed  with  the  fact  that  a  vast  amount 
of  hard  work  was  annually  done,  and  a  rich  and  remunera 
tive  crop  annually  reaped.  Plainly,  Major  Bergan  was  an 
energetic,  skilful  manager. 

On  his  part,  the  Major  was  greatly  pleased  with  his 
nephew's  intelligent  interest,  and  predicted,  more  than 
once,  that  he  would  make  a  rice-planter  of  him,  in  due 
time,  who  would  show  his  neighbors  "  what  was  what." 

The  sun  was  half  way  down  the  western  slope,  when  the 
uncle  and  nephew  returned  to  the  cottage.  Dinner  over, 
the  Major  civilly  expressed  his  regret  that  he  was  unexpect 
edly  called  to  another  part  of  the  plantation.  Bergan  could 
accompany  him;  or — not  to  disappoint  him  of  his  promised 
visit  to  the  old  Hall — he  could  get  the  keys  of  Maumer 
Rue,  and  explore  it  by  himself. 

Uergan  eagerly  caught  at  the  latter  alternative.  Nor, 
to  do  him  justice,  was  the  Major  at  all  displeased  thereby. 
Without  troubling  himself  to  analyze  his  own  emotions,  he 
yet  felt  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  the  task  of  showing 
his  nephew  through  the  deserted  home  of  his  forefathers. 


A   GOODLY    HERITAGE.  63 

Though  little  accustomed  to  care  for  the  opinions  or  the 
feelings  of  others,  he  foresaw  an  inevitable  mortification 
in  looking  with  Bergan  upon  the  ruin  and  desolation  for 
which  he  knew  himself  to  be  so  largely  responsible ;  since, 
if  he  had  not  invited  the  ravages  of  time,  he  had  put  forth 
no  hand  to  stay  them.  Perhaps  this  feeling  was  strong 
enough,  even,  to  lend  to  the  business  that  called  him  away, 
an  imperative  aspect  which  it  might  otherwise  have 
lacked. 

Bergan,  on  his  part,  was  well  content  to  dispense 
with  his  uncle's  guidance.  Not  only  would  his  presence 
be  a  constraint  upon  his  own  irrepressible  emotions  of  sad 
ness,  regret,  and,  possibly,  indignation ;  but  there  would 
be  a  rare,  subtile  charm  in  wandering  alone  through  pre 
cincts  at  once  so  familiar  and  so  strange,  in  finding  out  for 
himself  (or  led  only  by  the  shadowy  image  of  his  maiden 
mother),  spots  hallowed  by  the  tender  touch  of  oldtime 
joys  and  sorrows,  and  nooks  and  corners  darkened  not 
more  by  mould  and  cobwebs  than  by  the  clinging  dust  of 
immemorial  family  tradition. 

First,  however,  Major  Bergan  requested  his  companion 
ship  as  far  as  the  stable.  There  they  found  a  bright  look 
ing  boy,  somewhat  older  than  Jip,  who  had  just  finished  rub 
bing  down  the  filly  of  which  Bergan  had  so  lately  become 
the  master,  and  now  stood  regarding  the  result  with  great 
apparent  satisfaction. 

"  Well,  Brick,"  said  the  Major,  sternly,  "  I  hope  you've 
done  better  than  you  did  last  time." 

"  Yes,  massa,  she  done  berry  fine,  I'se  sure, — spec'  I 
put  a  right  smart  hour  on  her.  Look  a  dar,  now,  don'  she 
shine  ?  " 

The  Major  examined  her  carefully,  and  finding  nothing 
to  fault,  was  silent.  It  was  not  his  way  to  waste  words  in 
commendation.  He  merely  turned  from  the  horse  to  the 
negro,  and  asked,  pointing  to  Bei-gan, — 

"  You  see  that  young  gentleman  ?  " 


G-i  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKDS. 

"  Yis,  massa;  sartin,  raassa."  And  Brick  made  an  embar 
rassed  bow,  uncertain  whither  this  conversation  might  tend. 

"  "Well,  that's  Vic's  master,  and  yours.  It's  your  busi 
ness  to  take  care  of  her,  and  wait  on  him, — that  is,  do 
everything  he  tells  you.  Hereafter,  you  are  to  go  to  him 
for  orders." 

And  quickly  mounting  his  own  horse,  the  Major  rode 
off,  without  waiting  for  thanks  or  comments. 

Bergan  stood  looking  doubtfully  at  his  new  acquisition. 
Property  of  this  kind  gave  him  a  novel  sensation  ;  he  could 
not  tell,  on  the  instant,  whether  lie  liked  it  or  no.  Never 
theless,  he  recognized  the  inexpediency  of  discussing  the 
matter  with  the  dusky  chattel  himself;  who,  to  represent 
him  fairly,  seemed  in  nowise  displeased  with  his  change  of 
owners.  He  had  opened  his  eyes  a  trifle  wider  at  his  sud 
den  transfer,  and  uttered  a  mechanical,  "  Yis,  massa," — 
that  was  all.  He  now  stood,  tattered  hat  in  hand,  waiting 
for  orders.  Bergan  was  somewhat  disconcerted  to  find 
that  he  had  none  to  give.  Finally,  he  asked, — 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Rubric,  sah.     But  dey  mos'ly  calls  me  Brick." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see.     And  your  family  name  ?  " 

"  Hain't  got  no  family,  sah." 

"  Your  father's  name,  I  mean." 

"  Nebber  had  any  fader,  sah.  He  sold  down  souf,  fore 
I's  born." 

"  Your  second  name,  then." 

"  Same's  yours,  massa,  I  s'pose." 

"  Hum — How  old  are  you  ?  " 

Brick  scratched  his  head  reflectively.  "  Don'Jes'  know, 
massa,  'zactly.  Spec'  bout — bout — fifteen  or — twenty,  sah ; 
jess  's  massa  likes." 

Bergan  bit  his  lip.  Never  had  he  met  with  such  a  spirit 
of  accommodation. 

"  "Well,  Brick,"  he  asked,  after  a  moment,  "  if  you  had 
a  half-holiday,  now,  what  would  you  do  with  it  ?  " 


A   GOODLY   HERITAGE.  65 

Brick's  face  grew  radiant  through  all  its  dusk.  "  Go 
a-fishin',  raassa,"  he  burst  out,  eagerly  ;  "  I  jes'  should  !  " 

"  Well,  go  fishing,  then, — if  you  think  you  can  be  back 
by  supper-time." 

"  Yis,  massa.  Tank  you,  massa."  And  Brick  was  off 
like  an  arrow  from  the  string. 

Bergan  immediately  sought  out  old  Rue's  cabin.  Out 
wardly,  it  differed  little  from  its  neighbors ;  but  its  interior 
was  not  without  evidences  of  thoughtful  provision  for  the 
faithful  old  nurse's  comfort.  Having  kindly  answered  all 
the  questions  that  she  chose  to  ask,  in  reference  to  "  Miss 
Eleanor  "  and  her  western  life,  he  made  known  his  errand. 
She  instantly  took  a  key  from  her  pocket,  and  was  about 
to  put  it  in  his  hand,  when  she  suddenly  drew  back,  ex 
claiming  : — 

"  No,  no,  that  will  never  do  !  I  forgot.  That  is  the 
key  of  the  back  door.  You  see,  sir,  I  sometimes  look  into 
the  Hall,  and  that  way  is  most  convenient." 

"  I  assure  you  that  it  will  serve  me  very  well,  too," 
replied  Bergan.  "  It  does  not  matter  how  I  make  my  en 
trance." 

Rue  shook  her  head.  "  It  is  not  .fitting,"  said  she, 
"  that  the  son  and  heir  of  the  house  should  first  enter  at 
the  back,  like  a  servant." 

"  The  son,  but  not  the  heir,"  replied  Bergan,  smiling. 

Rue  turned  quickly  toward  him.  "  Not  the  heir  ! "  she 
exclaimed,  as  if  greatly  surprised.  "  And  why  not  ?  " 

The  question  was  not  easy  to  answer.  Bergan  could 
not  say  frankly,  "  Because  such  heirship  must  be  bought  at 
too  high  a  price, — even  the  surrender  of  my  profession, 
will,  conscience,  individuality."  Nor  did  the  answer  pre 
sent  itself  to  his  own  mind  in  this  definite  form.  He  was 
conscious,  at  the  moment,  of  nothing  but  a  confused,  hazy 
throng  of  doubts,  feai-s,  possibilities,  and  wishes. 

Rue  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  his  silence.  She  turned 
to  a  bureaii  near  by,  and,  after  a  little  search,  drew  forth 


66  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

a  large,  rusty  key,  which  she  handed  him  with  a  kind  of 
solemnity. 

"  It  has  waited  long,"  said  she,  "  for  the  hand  that 
should  rightfully  put  it  into  the  lock,  and  let  light  and 
hope  once  more  into  the  old  house.  I  thank  the  Lord  that 
I  live  to  see  the  day." 

Bergan  was  too  much  touched  to  answer.  He  walked 
quickly  to  the  front  of  the  deserted  mansion,  cut  the  vines 
from  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in  the  lock.  At  first,  it 
opposed  a  stubborn  resistance  to  his  efforts  ;  then,  sud 
denly,  the  bolt  yielded,  the  door  turned  slowly  on  its 
long-unused  hinges,  and  he  stood,  with  a  beating  heart, 
in  his  ancestral  hall. 


V. 

"WASTE  PLACES. 

HE  was  met  by  a  swift  gust  of  wind,  so  chill  and 
vault-like,  and  hurrying  past  him  with  so  woful  * 
a  sigh,  that  it  seemed  like  the  rush  of  innumerable 
imprisoned  ghosts,  eagerly  seizing  upon  the  opportunity 
for  escape.  Involuntarily  letting  go  the  door,  it  fell  to 
behind  him  with  a  clangor  that  reverberated  loudly,  for  a 
moment,  through  the  house,  and  then  suddenly  ceased,  as 
if  smothered  in  some  remote  corner  by  a  lurking  hand. 
The  silence  which  followed  was  dreary  and  oppressive, — 
all  the  more,  because  Bergan,  coming  so  suddenly  from 
the  outward  sunshine,  was  altogether  bedimmed  by  such 
density  of  gloom  as  brooded  within,  most  of  the  windows 
being  either  darkened  by  blinds,  or  closed  with  heavy 
opaque  shutters.  For  a  single  instant,  he  felt  a  thrill  of 
unreasoning  horror.  The  impenetrable  gloom,  the  oppres 
sive  stillness,  the  damp,  dead  air  (which  might  have  come 
straight  from  the  open  mouth  of  a  tomb),  gave  him  a  chill 
impression  that  he  had  committed  sacrilege. 

Quickly  recovering  himself,  however,  he  again  flung 
wide  open  the  door,  and  fastened  it  back.  By  the  light 
thus  admitted,  he  easily  found  his  way  to  a  window  at  the 
other  end  of  the  ball,  which  he  also  opened.  There  was 
an  immediate  inward  rush,  not  only  of  the  sunny  daylight, 
but  of  the  sweet,  warm  air  of  the  autumn  afternoon,  with 
its  inevitable  suggestions  of  tranquil  sea,  and  tender  sky, 
and  slow-waving  forest ;  quickly  penetrating,  he  felt  sure, 
to  the  uppermost  corner  of  the  long-deserted  dwelling,  and 


68  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

scattering  everywhere  some  healthful,  purifying,  enlivening 
influence. 

He  could  now  see  that  he  stood  in  a  wide  and  lofty 
entrance-hall,  decorated  with  a  profusion  of  carved  wood 
work  ;  panels,  cornices,  and  casements,  being  ornamented 
with  garlands  of  oaken  roses,  or  quaint  heads  of  animals, 
stiff  as  petrifactions,  and  almost  ebon-black  with  time  and 
rubbing.  The  furniture  consisted  of  a  small  table,  a  cum 
brous  cabinet,  and  ponderous,  high-backed  chairs,  of  the 
Elizabethan  age,  or  perhaps  earlier,  brought  from  England, 
as  heir-looms,  by  the  first  emigrant  Bergan.  There  was 
also  a  tall,  spectral  clock,  which,  to  Bergan's  intense  aston 
ishment,  suddenly  began  to  fill  the  hall  with  a  loud,  mo 
notonous  tick,  as  if  the  march  of  time,  long  ago  arrested  in 
the  deserted  mansion,  was  now  duly  resumed: — doubtless 
the  rusty  wheels  had  been  jarred  into  spasmodic  motion 
by  the  violent  closing  of  the  door.  By  way  of  decoration, 
there  were  a  few  dingy  pictures,  in  dark,  carved  frames  ; 
and  in  two  of  the  oaken  panels  hung  complete  suits  of 
armor, — helmets,  cuirasses,  gorgets,  greaves,  and  gauntlets, 
— memorials,  not  only  of  long-buried  Bergans,  but  of  long- 
vanished  days. 

Hesitating,  for  a  moment,  between  two  half-open  doors, 
Bergan  finally  chose  to  enter  the  main  parlor,  a  room  full 
of  a  dusky,  old-time  grandeur.  A  piano  stood  between  the 
windows,  over  the  keys  of  which  lie  ran  his  fingers,  but 
found  that  its  music  had  been  impi-isoned  so  long  as  to 
have  grown  hoarse  and  melancholy.  So,  doubtless,  had 
that  of  the  harp,  which  showed  skeleton-like  through  its 
torn  baize  cover,  and  was  flanked  by  a  pile  of  music-books, 
the  leaves  of  which  wei-e  yellow  with  age.  Odd,  unweildy 
chairs,  covered  with  faded  silk  damask  and  a  rich  coat  of 
dust,  kept  solemn  state  in  the  dim  corners  ;  ottomans  and 
footstools,  elaborately  embroidered  by  forgotten  fingers 
with  birds,  flowers,  and  other  once  cheerful  devices,  stood 
under  the  windows,  or  were  scattered  around  the  floor. 


WASTE    PLACES.  69 

On  the  walls,  in  frames  of  tarnished  magnificence,  hung 
two  or  three  pictures  in  worsted,  the  designs  of  which,  like 
the  hands  that  had  wrought  them,  were  now  faded  beyond 
recognition.  Just  in  proportion  as  these  things  had  once 
helped  to  brighten  the  room,  they  helped  to  make  it  more 
sombre  now.  Like  the  images  of  vanished  joys,  they  were 
all  the  gloomier  because  once  so  glad.  Looking  upon 
them,  Bergan  was  painfully  impressed  with  the  latent 
identity  of  gayety  and  grief.  Only  give  them  time 
enough,  and  they  merge  into  the  same  dull  neutral  tint! 

Bergan  next  glanced  into  a  second  parlor,  a  dusky 
ante-room,  and  a  dining-room,  but  leaving  these  places 
undisturbed  in  their  dim  and  dusty  sanctity,  as  not  of 
pressing  interest,  he  made  his  way  to  the  library,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hall.  It  was  a  large  and  lofty  room,  set 
round  with  ancient  book-cases,  above  and  between  which 
hung  rows  of  portraits,  in  frames  of  oak  and  gilt.  These 
represented  the  early  forefathers  and  later  worthies  of  the 
Bergan  lineage, — some  in  knightly  armor,  with  mailed 
hands  clasping  a  gleaming  sword-hilt ;  some  in  the  rich 
array  of  the  Tudor  or  the  Stuart  court,  with  laced  and 
plumed  hats  under  their  arms  ;  some  in  the  red  coats  and 
top-boots  of  English  squires,  with  a  favorite  horse  or  hound 
looking  out  from  one  corner  of  the  picture ;  some  in  the 
huge  horsehair  wigs  and  ermined  robes  of  the  judge's 
bench ;  and  others  in  the  cocked  hats  and  knee-breeches 
of  the  Revolution,  or  in  the  modern  black  coat  and  panta 
loons,  seated  in  arm-chairs,  with  their  backs  to  a  crimson 
curtain.  There  were  also  dames  to  match,  with  towers  of 
lace  and  curls  upon  their  heads,  ruffs,  farthingales,  and  all 
manner  of  obsolete  finery. 

Most  of  the  faces  had  the  austerity  of  aspect  common  to 
old  portraits,  as  if  time  had  delighted  to  bring  into  clearer 
view  the  hard,  stern  traits  of  character  which  the  painter 
had  dared  but  faintly  to  delineate,  and  had  even  then  done 
his  best  to  cover  up  with  pleasant  coloring,  and  a  final  coat 


70  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    COEDS. 

of  lustrous  vawiish.  Nowhere  was  this  effect  more  striking 
than  in  the  portrait  of  Sir  Harry  Bergan,  earliest  emigrant 
of  the  name,  and  father  of  the  American  line.  The 
younger  son  of  a  noble  English  house,  he  had  early  fallen 
under  the  displeasure  of  a  stern  father,  by  reason  of  care 
less  and  spendthrift  habits ;  and  had  finally  been  banished, 
in  disgrace,  to  a  small  continental  town,  upon  an  allowance 
barely  sufficient  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  Under 
this  severe  discipline, — smarting,  too,  with  a  rankling  sense 
of  injustice  in  the  treatment  that  he  had  received, — his 
character  underwent  a  complete  transformation.  His  care 
lessness  and  extravagance,  as  well  as  the  generosity  and 
frankness  of  which  they  had  been  the  rank,  ill-trained  out 
growth,  fell  from  him  like  worn-out  garments  ;  he  became 
bitter,  morose,  and  dogged. 

At  this  crisis,  the  sudden  death  of  his  mother  placed 
him  in  possession  of  her  own  large  fortune  and  family  es 
tate.  Life  once  more  opened  before  him ;  but  no  gentle  af 
fection  called  him  back  to  the  paternal  neighborhood.  On 
the  contrary,  he  emigrated  to  Georgia,  just  then  luminous 
with  the  career  and  the  fame  of  General  Oglethorpe ;  with 
the  ambitious  design  of  founding  a  Bergan  lineage  in  the 

o  o  ™  o 

new  world,  which  should  equal,  if  not  surpass,  that  of  the 
old  one.  lie  bought  a  vast  tract  of  land,  and  vigorously 
commenced  the  work  of  bringing  it  xmder  cultivation  ;  he 
distinguished  himself  both  as  soldier  and  citizen  in  the 
Spanish  war  and  the  colonial  trials,  and  was  knighted  for 
his  services ;  finally,  he  imported  men  and  materials,  and 
built  Bergan  Hall  as  nearly  as  was  possible  in  the  style  of 
his  early  English  home,  and  called  it  by  the  same  name. 
The  bricks,  the  tiles,  the  elaborate  oak  carvings,  the  door 
and  window-frames,  the  furniture  and  decorations,  the 
copies  of  ancestral  porti-aits,  were  all  brought  from  Eng 
land,  and  put  in  their  places  by  English  artisans. 

Scarcely  was  the  work  finished  ere  he  died,  bequeathing 
to  his  descendants,  not  only  a  vast  estate,  a  splendid  home, 


WASTE    PLACES.  71 

and  an  illustrious  name,  but,  by  a  still  stronger  law  of  heir- 
ship,  certain  marked  traits  of  character  hereditary  in  him 
self, — indomitable  energy,  dogged  independence,  strong 
family  pride,  and  an  occasional  lunacy  of  rage,  familiarly 
known  as  the  "  Black  Bergan  temper,"  to  which  the  race 
had  been  subject  from  time  immemorial.  These  character 
istics  were  to  be  traced,  more  or  less  distinctly  through  all 
the  portraits  of  his  successors ;  but  in  none  did  they  seem 
to  be  so  perfectly  reproduced  as  in  his  present  representa 
tive.  In  truth,  Major  Bergan  might  be  regarded  as  the 
original  Sir  Harry  over  again  ;  his  harsh  features  and  stern 
expression  being  shown  in  the  old,  time-darkened  picture 
with  a  degree  of  prophetical  accuracy  little  short  of  actual 
portraiture. 

Other  pictured  faces  there  were,  however,  which  time, 
still  faithful  to  its  work  of  bringing  out  the  essential  truth, 
had  only  touched  into  softer  beauty.  Such  was  the  face 
of  Eleanor,  wife  of  Sir  Harry  ;  a  woman  of  fair  and  noble 
presence,  in  the  rich  prime  of  h'er  life,  with  a  wise,  strong, 
beautiful  soul,  shining  out  through  her  deep,  soft  eyes. 
Before  this  picture  Bergan  lingered  long.  Even  in  baby 
hood,  his  mother  had  resembled  it  strongly  enough  to 
make  it  seem  most  fitting  that  she  should  receive  its  name  ; 
and  the  likeness  had  so  strengthened  with  years,  that  now, 
it  might  easily  have  passed  for  her  portrait,  painted  from 
life. 

Seeing  how  perfectly  these  twain  of  their  ancestors  were 
reflected  in  his  mother  and  uncle,  not  only  in  features,  but 
also  in  character,  Bergan  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  night 
mare  of  doubt  and  questioning.  Was  a  man's  good  or 
evil,  then,  a  mere  matter  of  inheritance,  an  inevitable  heir 
loom,  handed  down  to  him  from  a  remote  ancestry,  by  a 
more  effectual  law  of  transmission  than  has  ever  been  es 
tablished,  in  respect  to  more  tangible  property  ?  If  so, — 
if  the  defects  and  weaknesses,  the  depraved  tastes  and  un 
governable  passions,  which  characterized  the  father  were 


72  HOLDEN    WITH   THE    COEDS. 

inevitably  passed  on  to  the  son,  and  the  son's  son, — if  the 
moral  disease  under  which  this  man  groaned,  as  well  as 
the  sweet  temper  which  made  that  woman  a  household  sun 
beam,  were  to  be  surely  traced  back  to  their  ancestor  of  a 
hundred  years  ago  ;  what  became  of  individual  worth,  in 
dividual  shame,  and  individual  accountability  ? 

Bergan  shrank  from  the  apparently  inevitable  conclu 
sion.  He  felt,  with  an  unutterable  horror,  its  snaky  coils 
tightening  around  him,  squeezing  the  breath  out  of  every 
noble  aim  and  aspiration.  He  could  only  escape  from  it  by 
an  appeal  fronvhis  reason  to  his  consciousness. 

"  If,"  he  asked  himself,  "  I  should  now  take  that  grim 
picture  from  the  wall,  and  thrust  it  into  the  fire,  in  revenge 
for  the  pain  which  it  has  given  me,  should  I  not  know, 
despite  all  reasoning  to  the  contrary,  that  I — I  alone,  and 
not  that  bearded  Sir  Harry,  was  responsible  for  the  foolish 
act  ?  Certainly,  I  should  ;  lor  whatever  else  he  may  have 
sent  down  to  me,  he  did  not  give  me  either  my  will  or  my 
conscience.  These  are  my  'own,  and  never  Bergan  of  them 
all  had  them  before  me  !  "  And  he  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief. 

His  attention  was  now  directed  to  the  portrait  of  a 
young  girl,  at  the  end  of  the  second  row,  nearest  the  win 
dow.  It  had  an  odd,  illusive  resemblance  to  some  one  that 
he  had  known, — a  singular  likeness  in  unlikeness,  which 
puzzled  while  it  attracted  him.  All  at  once,  capturing  the 
fleeting,  familiar  expression,  as  it  were,  by  a  swift  side- 
glance,  he  recognized  it  as  that  portrait  of  his  mother  in 
her  youth,  of  which  Major  Bergan  had  spoken.  He  stood 
gazing  upon  it  long  and  earnestly,  yet  with  a  strange,  un- 
(Idinable  feeling  of  sadness,  too.  For  this  bright,  young 
being,  with  the  smooth  bi*ow,  the  arch,  dimpled  face,  and 
the  unwakened  soul  dreaming  at  the  depths  of  the  soft 
eyes,  was,  after  all,  a  stranger  to  him, — a  being  that  he  had 
never  known,  and  never  could  know,  any  more  than  if  she 
had  been  laid  years  ago  under  the  sod,  and  her  sweet  sub- 


WASTE    PLACES.  73 

stance  gradually  transformed  into  violets  and  daisies.  He 
went  back  to  the  picture  of  Lady  Eleanor,  and  felt,  with  a 
thrill  of  gladness,  that  he  had  found  again  the  mother  that 
he  seemed,  for  a  brief  space,  to  have  lost. 

He  now  turned  from  the  pictures  to  the  book-cases,  and 
found  them  to  contain  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  ancient 
and  modern  volumes,  carelessly  ranged  upon  the  shelves, 
without  reference  either  to  age  or  theme.  Latin  and  Eng 
lish  classics  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder ;  law  and  poetry 
were  harmoniously  cheek  by  jowl ;  divinity  and  science 
amiably  helped  each  other  to  stand  upright ;  history,  phi 
losophy,  morality,  and  controversy,  met  on  the  same  plane, 
and  sunk  their  differences  under  one  uniform  coat  of  dust. 
Geography  that  read  like  fiction,  geology  that  had  no 
interest  except  to  the  antiquarian,  and  infidelity  that  had 
not  a  peg  left  to  stand  upon,  were  huddled  together  in  one 
corner,  and  (no  doubt  to  their  utter  amazement)  helped,  in 
these  latter  days,  to  point  the  same  moral. 

Growing  oppressed,  at  last,  with  the  sight  of  so  much 
hopelessly  shelved  thought,  so  many  pages  bearing  the 
prints  of  a  long  succession  of  fingers  now  crumbled  into 
dust,  Bergan  turned  back  to  the  hall,  mounted  the  stair 
case,  and  glanced  into  two  or  three  of  the  chambers.  He 
found  in  all  faded  carpets,  ancient  bureaus,  high-post  bed 
steads,  shadow-haunted  hangings,  a  thick  coating  of  dust, 
and  a  heavy,  breathless  scent  which,  it  seemed  to  him, 
death  must  needs  have  left  there,  in  his  oldtime  visits.  In 
deed,  he  could  almost  have  believed  that  the  last  occupant 
of  each  dusky  cavern  of  a  bed  had  stiffened  into  clay 
therein,  and  been  left  to  choke  the  air,  and  coat  the  furni 
ture,  with  his  own  mouldering  substance.  No  lighter  dust, 
he  thought,  could  have  made  the  atmosphere  so  thick,  or 
caused  him  to  draw  his  breath  so  heavily. 

Opening  the  last  door  in  the  gallery,  Bergan  was 
startled  to  find  a  room  with  every  appearance  of  recent 
occupancy.  Not  a  speck  of  dust  dimmed  the  carpet  or  the 
4 


74:  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

furniture  ;  the  curtains  and  the  bed-drapery  stirred  lightly 
with  the  breeze  from  a  half-open  window  ;  the  soft  pillows 
seemed  waiting  for  the  head  that  had  dreamed  upon  them 
last  night ;  a  chair,  with  a  shawl  thrown  carelessly  over 
the  back,  stood  where  it  must  needs  have  been  left  a  mo 
ment  ago ;  an  open  workbox  showed  a  suggestive  confusion 
of  spools  of  silk  and  bits  of  ribbon  and  worsted ;  a  vase  of 
flowers  adorned  the  mantel ;  and  a  little  white  glove  lay  on 
the  toilet-table,  among  brushes  and  scent-bottles,  and  was 
reflected  in  a  small,  bright  mirror.  Bergan  hastily  drew 
back,  feeling  intuitively  that  he  had  intruded  upon  a 
maiden's  bed-chamber,  keeping  still  the  perfume  of  her 
sweet  breath  and  happy  thoughts. 

Yet — the  bed-linen,  how  strangely  yellow ! — the  shawl, 
how  dim  and  faded  ! — the  flowers,  how  withered !  He 
advanced  again  ;  he  began  to  understand  that  the 
maiden  who  had  dreamed  on  that  pillow,  whose  hand 
had  left  its  dainty  mould  in  that  glove,  the  sweetness 
of  whose  virgin  breath  still  lingered  in  the  room  with 
the  scent  of  the  withered  rosebuds,  went  out  from  it 
years  ago, — a  bride, — to  be  known  thenceforth  as  wife  and 
mother, — his  mother  !  His  eyes  grew  moist ;  one  by  one 
he  touched  the  little  possessions  left  behind  with  her  girl 
hood,  striving  thus  to  come  a  little  closer  to  the  fair,  shy 
image,  that  moved  him  with  such  unutterable  tenderness, 
yet  seemed  so  far  beyond  his  ken.  Reverently,  at  last,  he 
closed  the  door,  as  upon  a  still,  white,  smiling  corpse,  at 
once  ineffably  beautiful  and  ineffably  sad. 

But  who  had  cared  for  this  one  room  so  tenderly,  while 
all  the  rest  of  the  house  had  been  left  to  go  to  ruin  ?  The 
answer  was  plain.  Old  Rue,  whose  love  for  her  young 
mistress  was  half  a  woi-ship,  had  taken  a  sorrowful  pleasure 
in  keeping  the  room  (with  such  help  as  she  could  easily 
command)  in  the  exact  state  in  which  it  had  been  left. 

Bergan  was  in  no  mood  for  further  exploration.  He 
made  his  way  back  to  the  entrance-hall,  and  sat  down  in 


WASTE     PLACES.  75 

one  of  the  antique  chairs.  He  was  not  quite  ready  for  the 
instant  transition  into  the  outward  sunshine.  His  heart 
was  too  heavy.  The  ancestral  home  was  only  an  ancestral 
tomb.  Surrounded  by  memorials  of  the  old  state  and 
splendor  of  Bergan  Hall,  he  felt  all  the  more  keenly  its 
present  desolation  and  decay.  Remembering  the  noble 
Bergan  lineage,  he  was  humiliated  to  the  dust  by  the 
thought  of  its  present  representative. 

And  here,  first,  his  uncle's  offer  rose  before  him  in  the 
dazzling  garments  of  temptation.  Was  it,  after  all,  an 
ignoble  ambition  to  lift  the  family  name  out  of  the  dust, 
to  restore  the  family  home,  fill  it  again  with  social  life  and 
warmth,  and  make  it  the  centre  of  purer,  more  refining, 
and  more  elevating  influences  than  ever  before  ?  Was  it 
not  better  than  any  mere  personal  ambition  ?  Might  it 
not  be  just  the  place  which  he  was  meant  to  fill,  and 
which,  if  he  declined  to  take  it,  would  be  left  empty  ? 
From  questions  he  went  on  to  answers ;  and  his  thoughts 
shaped  out  a  tempting  vision  of  Bergan  Hall  restored,  re 
vivified.  Light  steps  and  rustling  garments  went  up  and 
down  the  broad  staircase, — his  mother  sat  smiling  in  her  old 
room, — voices  of  children  echoed  through  the  large,  sun 
shiny  parlors, — guests  came  and  went, — he  himself  sat  in 
the  library,  crowned  with  honors  as  with  years,  and — 

He  was  recalled  to  the  present  and  the  actual  by  a  low 
rumble  of  thunder.  The  sunshine  had  faded  from  the 
sky ;  clouds  were  rolling  up  from  the  west ;  he  hastened 
back  to  the  cottage  through  the  first  drops  of  the  rain. 

The  evening  passed  much  like  its  predecessor.  When, 
at  last,  he  went  up  to  his  room,  leaving  his  uncle  to  the 
dear  companionship  of  his  bottle  and  glass,  he  found  it 
half-flooded  with  water  from  a  newly  sprung  leak  in  the 
roof.  Hastily  declining  the  Major's  hesitating  offer  of  a 
share  in  his  own  apartment,  he  begged  permission  to 
quarter  himself  in  the  old  Hall. 

Major  Bergan  set  down  his  glass,  and  looked  at  him 


76  IIOLDEN   WITH    TIIE   COEDS. 

with  a  mixture  of  wonder  and  admiration.  "  Certainly, 
Harry,  if  you  are  in  earnest  about  it,"  said  he.  "  But  I 
must  say  that  you  are  a  brave  fellow  to  choose  to  sleep 
alone  in  an  old  ruin  like  that, — haunted,  too,  the  negroes 
say.  But  are  you  sure  that  you  can  find  a  room  there  any 
less  leaky  than  your  present  one  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  I  noticed  two  or  three,  on  the  south  side, 
which  seemed  to  be  in  excellent  condition." 

"  Very  well ;  take  your  choice,  and  make  yourself  as 
comfortable  as  you  can.  Brick  is  under  your  orders,  of 
course ;  and  Maumer  Rue  will  send  you  out  one  of  the 
women,  with  what  linen  is  needed.  Good  night." 

The  Major  remained  standing  at  the  door,  till  he  saw, 
first,  a  wandering  gleam  of  light  through  the  crevices  of 
the  old  house,  and  then  the  steady  beam  of  a  candle,  shin- 
'ing  from  an  upper  window. 

"  A  light  in  Eleanor's  room  ! — I  never  expected  to  see 
that  again  !  "  he  murmured,  and  went  back  to  his  bottle, 
to  drink  all  the  deeper  for  some  unwontedly  sad  and  re 
morseful  thoughts. 

Meanwhile,  Bergan  had  not  once  dreamed  of  appropri 
ating  that  maiden  sanctuary.  He  had  merely  chosen  the 
room  next  to  it ;  and  the  door  between  being  transiently 
opened  for  better  ventilation,  Major  Bergan  had  seen  his 
light  through  the  designated  window. 

It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  make  his  dusty,  mouldy 
room  even  tolerably  habitable,  but  it  was  finally  achieved  ; 
and,  dismissing  Brick,  Bergan  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow, 
with  a  real  satisfaction  in  being,  at  last,  domiciled  under 
his  ancestral  roof. 


VI. 


THE    DAT    OF   TEMPTATION. 

TWO  days  of  drizzling  rain  followed,  and  did  their 
best  to  make  the  black  roof  and  mouldy  walls 
of  Bergan  Hall  look  more  cheerless  than  ever. 
But  a  counteracting  influence  was  busy  within.  An  ener 
getic  young  spirit  was  rapidly  organizing  a  home  for  itself 
m  one  corner;  turning  the  shadows  out  of  nooks  where 
they  had  lain  so  long  as  almost  to  have  established  a  pre 
emption  right,  and  making  short  work  with  dust,  mould, 
and  dead  air.  And,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  the  whole 
house  seemed  to  catch  the  pleasant  infection,  and  to  be 
faintly  astir  with  life.  A  passer-by  of  delicate  instincts 
would  have  seen  at  once  that  the  long  lease  of  silence  and 
emptiness  had  expired.  And  in  truth,  it  would  have  been 
strange  if  a  dwelling-  so  old — so  long  familiar  with  human 
affairs  and  interests,  the  very  timbers  of  which  must  have 
been  oozy  with  the  exhalations  of  a  long  succession  of  joys 
and  sorrows — had  not  shown  itself  ready  to  sympathize 
with  every  passing  phase  of  life,  and  especially  to  welcome 
back  to  its  empty  old  bosom  a  fresh,  young,  beating 
heart. 

That  it  did  so,  Bergan  felt  intuitively.  In  return,  he 
did  what  he  could  to  vivify  with  his  single  personality  its 
whole  wide  indoor  world.  Having  received  unlimited  dis 
cretionary  powers  from  his  uncle,  in  regard  to  choice  of 
rooms  and  furniture,  as  well  as  the  most  unrestrained  priv 
ilege  of  exploration,  he  went  from  room  to  room,  ransack 
ing  and  arranging,  here  picking  up  a  quaintly  carved  chair, 


78  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

and  there  an  absurdly  contorted  little  table,  and  setting 
wide  open  doors  and  windows  wherever  he  could  find  a 
reasonable  excuse  for  doing  so.  He  even  mounted  to  the 
garret,  a  great  twilight-hall,  stored  with  the  lumber  of 
many  vanished  generations,  and  dived  into  nooks  of  dingi 
est  obscurity,  with  the  eager  zeal  of  a  discoverer ;  coming 
forth  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  laden  with  spoils. 
File  upon  file  of  yellow  papers,  having  a  possible  interest 
as  family  annals,  a  curiously  gnarled  and  twisted  genealogi 
cal  tree,  a  dust-choked  flute,  several  Spanish  songs  in  manu 
script,  a  discoloi'ed  sketch-book,  and  a  quaint  old  secretary, 
from  the  innumerable  pigeon-holes  of  which  sprang  a  Avhole 
colony  of  alarmed  mice, — these  were  among  the  treasures 
that  he  unearthed,  and  transferred  to  his  own  room  for  ex 
amination  or  use.  Every  hour,  the  home-feeling  grew  upon 
him.  Despite  the  gray  and  dripping  sky,  and  the  discon 
solate,  water-soaked  earth,  these  days  had  their  own  pecu 
liar  illumination  and  charm.  Oldness  and  newness  com 
bined  to  produce  one  rich — albeit,  a  little  heavy — atmos 
phere  of  enjoyment. 

Occasionally,  his  uncle  came  to  watch  his  progress,  and 
favor  him  with  half-serious,  half-jocular  commentary.  He 
was  both  interested  and  amused  to  observe  how  readily  the 
new  inmate  fitted  himself  into  his  surroundings,  and  what 
talent  he  displayed  in  organizing  various  crude  and  chaotic 
elements  into  one  harmonious  whole.  By  turns  he  adapted, 
invented,  or  altered,  until  his  room  presented  an  aspect  of 
pleasantness,  as  well  as  an  array  of  conveniences,  in  strik 
ing  contrast  with  the  rude  accommodations  of  the  cottage, 
and  even  with  the  old  time  appliances  that  had  served 
former  occupants.  His  uncle  wondered  and  admired  even 
while  he  shook  his  head  over  the  un-Bergan-like  trait,  and 
questioned  if,  after  all,  it  were  not  a  sign  of  degeneracy. 
This  doubt  wellnigh  culminated  in  conviction  when,  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  second  day,  in  a  lull  of  the  storm,  he  dis 
covered  his  nephew  calmly  seated  astride  the  high  ridge- 


THE    DAY   OF   TEMPTATION.  79 

pole,  with  a  bundle  of  shingles  and  a  pocketful  of  nails, 
stopping  the  leaks  with  which  the  long  rain  and  his  visits 
to  the  garret  had  made  him  acquainted  ;  and  accompanying 
his  work  with  a  very  sweet  and  deftly  executed  whistle. 

"  That  settles  the  question,  Harry,"  he  shouted  to  the 
amateur  carpenter,  a  smile  and  a  frown  struggling  for  su 
premacy  on  his  upturned  face.  "  There  never  was  a  Ber- 
gan,  from  first  to  last,  who  could  have  done  that ! " 

"  Do  not  speak  so  disrespectfully  of  our  common  an 
cestors,  uncle !  As  if  they  had  not  the  use  of  their 
hands ! " 

"  Humph !  It's  plain  that  you  have  the  use  of  yours, 
and  of  your  head,  too !  How  in  the  world  did  you  reach 
that  dizzy  altitude?" 

Bergan  laughed.  " '  Where  there's  a  will  there's  a 
way.'  What  should  you  say  to  the  chimney?" 

"  Nonsense  !     How  did  you  get  up  there  ?  " 

"I  really  cannot  answer  that  question  as  it  stands. 
There  is  a  mistake  in  the  terms." 

"  You  rascal !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  '  get  up ; '  I  came  down."  And  Bergan 
glanced  at  a  great  oak-bough,  swinging  full  ten  feet  above 
his  head. 

The  Major  uttered  a  cry  of  admiration.  "You  are  a 
Bergan,  and  no  mistake  !  "  he  cried,  emphasizing  the  state 
ment  with  an  oath.  "  You've  got  the  real,  old,  brave  Ber 
gan  stuff  in  you,  Harry,  and  I'm  proud  of  you,  in  spite  of 
your  tinkering.  But  that  bough  is  now  out  of  your  reach  ; 
you  cannot  come  down  by  that  route." 

"  A  new  one  will  be  more  interesting.  And  the  chim 
ney  has  a  most  capacious  throat ;  the  builders  must  have 
contemplated  the  passage  of  other  things  than  smoke." 

"  Harry  !  you'll  break  your  neck !  Don't  you  dare  to 
come  down  till  I  send  you  a  ladder!  At  the  same  time,  I'll 
order  the  carpenter  to  finish  up  that  job,  if  it  must  bo 
done." 


80  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

"He  will  be  too  late,  uncle;  I  am  just  laying  the  last 
shingle." 

"  Speak  lower,  you  scamp !  lest  the  old  portraits  under 
your  feet  should  hear  you  and  blush." 

"Their  thanks  would  be  much  more  to  the  point — 
especially  Sir  Harry's,"  coolly  replied  Bergan.  "  Two 
hours  ago,  the  water  from  this  very  leak  was  pouring  in  a 
stream  down  his  long  ancestral  nose ;  you  would  have  said 
the  picture  had  an  influenza." 

The  Major  emitted  a  sound  between  a  laugh  and  a 
growl,  and  vanished. 

Poor  Brick  was  even  more  scandalized  by  his  young 
master's  plebeian  readiness  with  his  hands.  The  very  ease 
with  which  Bergan  performed  his  self-imposed,  and,  for  the 
most  part,  unaccustomed  tasks,  misled  the  dusky  spectator. 
To  be  sui-e,  Brick  was  a  little  comforted  to  observe  that 
those  agile  hands  knew  the  trick  of  the  ivory  piano-keys 
full  well,  and  could  evolve  soulful  melody  from  the  flute, 
that  they  were  not  ignorant  of  the  mysteries  of  sketching, 
and  betrayed  a  scholarly  familiarity  with  books  and  papers, 
pen  and  ink;  yet  he  doubted  if  even  these  gracious  accom 
plishments  could  wash  from  them  the  stain  of  that  dread 
ful  manual  labor  in  which  they  were  ei'ewhile  engaged, — 
the  only  redeeming  feature  of  which  was  that  it  was  not 
done  for  bread. 

Nevertheless,  Brick  loved  his  young  master  with  all  his* 
heart.  He  had  succumbed  at  once  to  the  rare  charm  of  Ber- 
gan's  manner, — so  grave  and  thoughtful  for  his  years,  yet 
so  richly  illuminated,  at  times,  with  soft  gleams  of  humor, 
and  always  so  genuinely  kind.  He  followed,  him  like  his 
shadow;  he  could  scarcely  be  happy  out  of  his  presence; 
and  notwithstanding  his  own  inward  struggles  with  doubt 
and  mortification,  he  continually  held  him  up  to  the  admira 
tion  of  the  quarter  in  the  strongest  language  of  encomium 
that  he  could  command,  as  a  "  bery  high-tone  gemman,  and 
jcs'  de  bes'  massa  dat  ebber  stepped  foot  on  de  old  place." 


THE   DAY    OF   TEMPTATION.  81 

The  appearance  of  this  "  high-toned  gentleman  "  on  the 
roof,  in  the  humble  role  of  carpenter,  was,  therefore,  a  rude 
shock  to  Brick's  finer  sensibilities.  He  watched  him  from 
the  ground  below,  groaning  simultaneously  over  probable 
fractures  to  his  limbs,  and  certain  damage  to  his  reputa 
tion.  It  gave  him  some  consolation  to  find  that  the  Major 
was  inclined  to  treat  the  matter  in  a  jocular  rather  than  a 
serious  light ;  and  he  was  profoundly  impressed  with  his 
hearty  admiration  of  the  gymnastic  feat  with  which  the 
questionable  performance  had  opened.  That,  at  least,  his 
own  dusky  friends  of  the  quarter  could  understand  and 
approve. 

Brick  was  still  further  reassured  by  Maumer  Rue,  to 
whom  he  stood  in  the  relation  of  grandson.  On  being  con 
sulted,  she  had  replied,  loftily, — 

"  A  Bergan  can  do  what  he  pleases,  child.  He  is  not 
obliged  to  walk  by  rule  and  measure,  like  people  whose 
pedigree  stops  with  their  grandfathers.  If  a  king  chooses 
to  make  a  box,  a  barrel,  or  a  piece  of  furniture,  for  his  own 
use,  it  is  not  a  meanness,  but  an  eccentricity."  And  the 
long  word  not  only  floored  Brick's  last  remaining  doubt, 
but  furnished  him  with  the  means  of  silencing  other  critics. 
In  view  of  carpentry  and  tinkering,  dignified  with  the 
sonorous  title  of  "  exkingtricities,"  nothing  was  left  to 
the  quarter  but  to  roll  its  eyes  and  shut  its  mouth  in 
Inute  amazement. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day^-the  sky  pushed  aside 
its  gray  veil  of  clouds,  and  smiled  once  more  upon  the  wet 
and  melancholy  earth.  Thereupon  the  latter  quickly  dried 
up  some  of  its  tears,  and  made  what  shift  for  joy  it  could 
with  the  remainder.  Every  pool  reflected  a  bit  of  the 
sky's  wide  smile,  or  the  pleasant  stir  of  overhanging 
foliage.'  The  grand  old  evergreen  oaks  around  Bergan 
Hall  shook  from  their  far-reaching  boughs  broken  sunlight 
and  dancing  shadows,  fresh  breeze  and  shining  raindrops, 
in  nearly  equal  measure.  The  whisper  of  the  pine-woods 
4* 


82  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

became  a  song  rather  than  a  sigh ; — or,  if  it  were  a  sigh, 
it  was  of  that  pleasant  kind  which  struggles  up  uncon 
sciously  from  a  heart  a  little  overfull  of  pleasure.  Even 
the  long  streamers  of  gray  moss  decked  themselves  with 
prismatic  jewels,  and  forgot  to  be  mournful. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind  a  little  mud,"  said  the  Major,  at 
the  dinner-table,  "  we  will  order  our  horses,  and  ride  over 
to  Berganton  this  afternoon.  You  must  be  tired  of  being 
cooped  up  in  the  house,  by  this  time,  in  spite  of  your  ready 
knack  at  finding  occupation  and  amusement  where  most 
people  would  gape  their  heads  off  with  ennui.  Besides,  it 
is  high  time  that  you  should  see  something  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  outside  our  own  plantation, — as  well  as  the  village 
which  your  ancestors  founded.  To  be  sure,  there  is  pre 
cious  little  to  see, — Berganton  is  not  what  it  was  once, — 
but  I  shall  be  glad  to  show  you  that  little,  and  also,  to 
introduce  you  to  some  of  my  old  acquaintances." 

As  the  two  gentlemen  were  riding  through  the  muti 
lated  avenue,  Bergan  could  not  help  asking  if  the  trees 
which  had  formerly  arched  and  shaded  it  had  been  felled 
on  account  of  decay. 

"  No,"  replied  the  Major,  a  little  gruffly,  as  if  he  sus 
pected  a  latent  rebuke  in  the  question  ;  "  but  they  spoiled 
twenty  or  thirty  acres  of  the  best  corn -land  on  the  planta 
tion,  and  were  very  valuable  for  timber,  besides.  And, 
about  that  time,  I  was  bent  on  lifting  a  certain  old  mort 
gage  off  from  the  place,  and  getting  generally  forehanded 
with  the  world,  at  any  sacrifice,  short  of  selling  land. 
However,"  he  continued,  his  face  clearing  again,  "if  you  will 
stay  here,  Harry,  you  shall  replant  the  avenue,  just  as  soon 
as  you  like,  if  that  is  your  pleasure.  The  trees  will  not  grow 
large  enough  to  do  much  damage,  in  my  time; — besides,  I 
can  afford  the  land  now, — and  almost  anything  else  that  you 
may  happen  to  fancy.  I  have  not  saved  and  slaved  all 
these  years  for  nothing ; — you  may  be  certain  of  that. 
And,  as  I've  said  before,  I  don't  believe  in  half-way  work. 


THE    DAY   OF   TEMPTATION.  83 

If  you  stay  here,  it  will  be  as  my  adopted  son  ;  and  I  mean 
to  show  myself  an  indulgent  father." 

A  kindlier  smile  than  was  often  seen  on  the  Major's 
rugged  features,  lit  up  his  face  as  he  concluded.  Then, 
suddenly  turning  to  Bergan,  and  holding  out  his  hand,  he 
asked,  in  the  husky  tone  of  emotion,  and  with  a  look  of 
entreaty, — 

"  Shall  we  shake  hands  upon  it  ?  " 

Bergan  was  taken  by  surprise.  In  grateful  recognition 
of  his  uncle's  manifest  kindness  of  intention,  as  well  as  of 
his  unwonted  softness  of  manner,  he  impulsively  clasped 
the  outstretched  hand.  At  once  he  became  aware  that,  in 
so  doing,  he  had  appeared  to  yield  an  unqualified  assent  to 
his  uncle's  wishes.  Hurriedly  casting  about  for  inoffensive 
phraseology  wherein  to  disavow  any  such  intent,  it  was 
singularly  hard  to  find.  To  increase  the  difficulty,  Major 
Bergan  was  pouring  forth  his  gratification  that  the  matter 
was  finally  settled,  in  terms  of  unusual  warmth  and  anima 
tion.  It  was  evident,  not  only  that  the  plan  lay  nearer  to 
his  heart  than  had  hitherto  appeared,  but  that  he  himself 
had  taken  stronger  hold  of  his  uncle's  affections  than  he 
had  imagined. 

In  fact,  Bergan  had  come  to  the  Major  just  at  the 
auspicious  moment  when,  having  measurably  accomplished 
the  object  which  had  absorbed  all  his  thoughts  and  ener 
gies  for  many  years,  he  was  looking  around  him  for  some 
thing  to  fill  its  place  in  his  life,  and  beginning  vaguely  to 
discern  that  his  heart  was  empty,  and  his  future  aimless. 
The  old  family  home  was  not  the  only  thing  that  he  had 
left  to  go  drearily  to  ruin,  while  pursuing  his  own  selfish 
ends  in  his  own  unscrupulous  way. 

Beholding,  at  this  moment,  a  frank,  brave,  handsome 
youth  by  his  side,  full  of  talent  and  of  promise,  and  singu 
larly  attractive  in  manner, — in  whose  veins,  too,  ran  some 
of  the  same  blood  that  filled  his  own,  and  whose  features 
were  moulded  after  the  best  ancestral  type, — his  dormant 


84  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

affections  quickly  awakened  to  fasten  themselves  pertina 
ciously  around  the  timely  object.  His  thoughts  began 
industriously  to  shape  out  for  himself  a  new  future,  which 
should  embrace,  as  a  setting  its  appropriate  jewel,  a  bril 
liant  and  prosperous  career  for  this  young  hope  of  his 
house.  The  unsuspected  strength  of  these  feelings  now 
made  itself  clearly  visible,  both  in  the  hearty  grasp  which 
he  gave  his  nephew's  hand,  and  in  a  sudden  affectionateness 
of  eyes,  mouth,  voice,  gesture,  and  every  indescribable 
manifestation,  that  Bergan  had  never  seen  in  him  before. 
Naturally  enough,  the  young  man  shrank  from  the  utter 
ance  of  words  certain  to  drive  back  on  itself  this  outgush 
of  the  inestimable  tenderness  of  a  stern  nature,  to  bring 
back  the  old  sharpness  and  severity  to  eyes  that  now  lay 
so  soft  and  deep  under  their  shaggy  brows. 

Moreover,  he  felt  that  his  own  resolution  was  wavering. 
Bergan  Hall  had  grown  strangely  dear  to  him  during  his 
solitary  occupation  of  its  silent,  but  suggestive  precincts. 
He  might  have  been  proof  against  every  temptation  that  it 
could  have  offered  in  its  grandeur  and  its  prosperity  ;  but 
in  its  loneliness  and  decay  there  was  a  pathetic  appeal  to 
much  that  was  best  and  noblest  in  his  nature.  To  this 
influence,  a  stronger  one,  even,  was  now  added.  Seeing 
the  strength  of  his  uncle's  new-born  affection,  and  its 
softening  effect  upon  his  face  and  manner,  Bergan  began 
to  question  within  himself  whether  a  still  better  and  nobler 
work  than  the  restoration  of  the  ancestral  home,  might  not 
here  call  for  his  hand — even  the  restoration  of  a  human 
life.  Those  woful  habits  of  intoxication  and  profanity,  far 
worse  than  the  dry-rot  that  gnawed  at  the  timbers  of  the 
old  Hall ;  that  roughness  and  sordidness  which  had  gath 
ered  over  the  once  promising  chai-acter,  far  sadder  to 
behold  than  the  mould  and  the  dust  that  dimmed  the 
ancestral  grandeur ; — were  there  not  moral  instruments 
available  for  the  cure  of  the  one,  as  there  were  artisan's 
tools  able  to  remove  all  traces  of  the  other. 


THE    DAY    OF    TEMPTATION.  85 

To  young  minds  there  is  always  a  strong  fascination  in 
the  prospect  of  exerting  a  good  influence  upon  others. 
Older  heads — seeing  how  little  is  often  effected  by  the  best 
and  most  persistent  endeavors,  and  sadly  cognizant  of  the 
fact  that  influences  are  received  as  well  as  exerted  (a  long 
deterioration  in  one's  self  being  sometimes  the  price  of  a 
little,  brief  improvement  in  another) — are  not  so  ready  to 
take  upon  themselves  the  responsibility  of  acting  upon 
any  human  soul,  nor  so  sanguine  of  success.  But  Bergan 
had  none  of  this  late  wisdom, — if  wisdom  it  be.  Through 
his  quiet  character  there  ran  the  golden  vein  of  a  noble 
enthusiasm.  He  believed  that  it  was  his  part  and  duty  to 
make  the  world  better  for  having  lived  therein.  Still  sus 
ceptible  to  influences  himself,  he  had  no  conception  of  the 
iron  bands,  the  indestructible  tendencies,  of  evil  habits 
indulged  for  years.  He  stood  ready,  at  any  time,  and 
anywhere,  to  throw  himself  into  the  long  conflict  between 
Right  and  Wrong,  and  doubted  not  that  the  issue  of  the 
fray  would  turn  upon  his  single  sword. 

Half-buried  in  thought,  half-listening  to  his  uncle's 
talk,  he  rode  mechanically  onward.  On  one  side  of  his 
path,  flowed  the  smooth,  shining  waters  of  the  creek  ;  on 
the  other  ran  the  Bergan  estate,  with  its  odd  aspect  of 
mingled  thrift  and  neglect.  He  had  often  wondered  at  the 
singular  blending,  in  his  uncle's  character,  of  the  sturdy 
English  energy  inherited  from  that  indefatigable  Briton, 
Sir  Harry,  with  the  indifference  and  impromptitude  in 
duced  by  the  climate.  It  was  especially  curious  to  note 
how  these  diverse  qualities  displayed  themselves  in  differ 
ent  directions.  With  human  beings,  his  laborers  and  de 
pendents,  and  even  with  his  animals,  he  was  prompt, 
energetic,  and  exacting,  accepting  no  excuses,  and  show 
ing  no  indulgence ;  with  inanimate  things,  he  was  often 
careless,  negligent,  and  unobservant.  On  this  portion  of 
the  estate,  which  seemed  but  little  cultivated,  fences  were 
down  or  dilapidated,  gates  swung  unwillingly  on  their 


80  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

hinges,  and  outbuildings  seemed  ready  to  fall  with  their 
own  weight. 

Soon,  too,  these  things  were  made  more  noticeable  by 
contrast,  as  a  long  line  of  neatly-kept  grounds  and  well 
ordered  fences  came  into  view.  Shortly  after,  a  pleasant 
cottage,  amply  provided  with  broad,  cool,  vine-draped 
piazzas,  appeared  on  the  right ;  standing  a  little  apart  from 
the  road,  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  live-oak  trees  scarcely 
less  grand  and  venerable  than  those  which  flung  their 
heavy  shadow  over  Bergan  Hall.  At  sight  of  it,  the 
Major's  face  grew  dark  again ;  especially  as  Bergan, 
pleased  with  its  neat  and  cheerful  aspect,  turned  to  give 
it  a  second  look. 

"  Yes,"  he  burst  forth  bitterly,  with  a  fearful  oath, 
"  that  is  where  my  brother,  the  hardware  merchant,  lives  ! 
I  tell  you  what,  Harry,  the  very  first  thing  that  you  are  to 
do,  as  soon  as  you  get  a  chance  (if  I  don't  live  to  do  it 
myself),  is  to  buy  out  his  heirs,  and  raze  that  impertinent 
shanty  to  the  ground.  Just  recollect  that,  will  you  ?  if  I 
should  happen  to  forget  to  put  it  into  my  will." 

Bergan  forebore  to  reply.  He  was  learning  that  it  was 
his  wisest  course — at  least,  so  he  thought — to  take  no  notice 
of  his  uncle's  bitter  wrath  and  prejudice,  since  he  could 
not  sympathize  with  them.  If  his  growing  wish  to  possess 
Bergan  Hall  lay  at  the  bottom  of  this  silence,  he  was  as  yet 
unconscious  of  it. 

His  uncle, — accepting  his  forbearance  as  a  sign  of 
acquiescence  to  his  wishes, — now,  for  the  first  time,  really 
exerted  himself  for  his  entertainment.  He  talked  with 
vivacity,  humor,  intelligence,  and  much  of  the  tone  and  man 
ner  of  his  earlier  days.  His  better  self  revived,  for  a  time; 
and  Bergan  recognized  something  of  the  refined,  cultured, 
accomplished  gentleman,  of  his  mother's  descriptions,  whose 
lightsome  flow  of  spirits,  gay  sparkle  of  wit,  and  frank, 
cordial  address,  had  made  him  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
circle  wherein  he  moved.  It  was  mournful  to  see  him 


THE    DAY    OF    TEMPTATION.  87 

under  this  pleasant  transformation,  and  think  of  him  in  his 
usual  aspect.  Bergan  could  not  but  wonder  how  he  had 
ever  fallen  to  that  lower  level.  He  had  not  seen  the  easy 
descent  from  gayety  to  dissipation  of  his  younger  days ; 
nor  could  he  understand  how  naturally,  with  years,  drinking 
in  frivolous  companionship  had  been  exchanged  for  drink 
ing  alone,  lavishness  for  parsimony,  the  gay,  aimless  life  of 
a  man  of  the  world  for  the  steady,  energetic  pursuit  of 
one  selfish,  isolated,  exclusive  object. 

They  now  reached  the  village.  As  they  rode  through 
its  principal  street,  which  was  wide  and  handsomely  shaded, 
the  Major  pointed  to  one  and  another  of  the  houses  along 
its  sides,  and  quietly  named  men  and  women  that  had 
occupied  them  in  years  agone ;  either  forgetting,  or  un- 
awai'e,  that  most  of  them  were  now  tenanting  that  one 
earthly  house,  of  whose  narrow  accommodations  every 
mortal  must  needs  have  some  experience, — namely,  the 
grave. 

Bergan,  meanwhile,  felt  himself  quite  at  home  among 
names  so  often  heard  from  his  mother's  lips ;  and  momen 
tarily  expected  that  his  uncle  would  stop  at  some  one  of  these 
fi'iendly  dwellings,  for  the  renewal  of  his  own  acquaintance, 
and  the  introduction  of  his  nephew.  But  to  his  extreme 
surprise,  the  Major  rode  straight  through  the  village,  and 
dismounted  before  a  tavern,  at  its  extreme  end. 


VII. 

A    BITTER   DRAUGHT. 

IT  needed  but  a  glamce  to  show  Bergan  that  the  tavern 
was  of  the  lower  sort.  It  was  dingy  and  dilapidated 
without,  and  from  its  open  windows  were  wafted  sounds 
of  hoarse  voices,  shouts  of  laughter,  the  jingling  of  glasses, 
and  a  strong  odor  of  tobacco,  betokening  a  corresponding 
amount  of  moral  dinginess  and  dilapidation  within.  Bergan 
turned  to  his  uncle  with  a  disgust  that  he  hardly  attempted 
to  conceal, — the  natural  disgust  of  a  healthy  body  and 
mind  for  things  coarse,  foul,  noisy,  and  vulgar, — and  in 
quired  ; — 

"  Do  you  intend  to  stop  here  long  ?  " 

"  Quite  long  enough  for  you  to  get  off  and  stretch 
yourself,"  replied  the  Major,  carelessly.  "This  is  an  old 
halting-place  of  mine,  and  looks  as  natural  as  possible, 
though  it  is  a  year  or  more  since  I  have  set  eyes  on  it.  No 
doubt  I  shall  find  some  old  acquaintances  here.  Come ! 
don't  sit  there  gaping  at  the  outside,  like  a  man  trying  to 
guess  at  the  purport  of  a  letter  from  the  looks  of  the 
envelooe,  when  the  inside  would  tell  him  what  he  wants  to 
know,  in  a  jiffy  ;  get  off  your  horse,  and  come  in." 

Bergan  obeyed,  but  with  a  manifest  reluctance  that 
brought  a  cloud  to  the  Major's  brow.  Muttering  something 
between  his  teeth,  which  had  the  tone  and  bitterness  of 
a  curse,  but  was  unintelligible,  the  latter  led  the  way  to 
the  bar-room. 

Several  varieties  of  the  genus  loafer,  both  of  the  gen 
teel  and  vulgar  species,  were  leaning  over  the  counter,  or 
seated  in  tilted-up  chairs,  puffing  out  tobacco  smoke,  and 


A   BITTER    DRAUGHT.  89 

discussing  matters  of  local  interest.  The  appearance  of 
the  Major  was  greeted  with  enthusiasm, — all  the  more,  that 
his  first  words,  after  a  "  How  d'y  "  of  very  general  applica 
tion,  were  an  order  to  the  landlord  to  make  a  stiff  bowl  of 
punch,  on  a  scale  commensurate  with  the  numbers  of  the 
party. 

"  This  is  my  nephew,  gentlemen,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
the  delighted  audience, — "  Harry  Bergan  Arling,  as  he  now 
calls  himself,  or  Harry  Bergan,  of  Bergan  Hall,  as  he  is  to 
be,  in  good  time, — a  real  chip  of  the  old  family  block, 
as  you  can  see  at  a  glance.  I  expect  that  you  will  all  do 
me  the  honor  of  drinking  his  health  in  a  bowl  of  the  best 
punch  that  Gregg  can  concoct.  Hurry  up,  Gregg  !  you 
know  how  I  like  it, — not  too  strongly  flavored  with  our 
two  days'  drizzle;  —  was  there  ever  a  nastier  spell  of 
weather  ?  " 

"  Never  knew  the  sky  so  leaky  in  all  my  life,"  responded 
a  languid  loafer  of  the  genteeler  sort,  too  lazy  to  furnish 
his  sentences  with  nominatives.  "Begun  to  think,  with 
Father  Miller,  'twas  getting  worn  out." 

"  It  will  last  our  time,  I  reckon,"  returned  the  Major. 
"  And  '  after  us  the  deluge,'  of  course.  I  would  not  mind 
taking  a  swim  in  it  myself,  if  it  were  of  punch  such  as 
Gregg,  there,  is  mixing.  It  looks  like  the  real  thing ! 
Now,  gentlemen,  step  forward  and  take  your  glasses. 
Here's  to  the  health  of  my  nephew, — Harry  Bergan, — and 
may  he  unite  in  his  single  person  all  the  virtues  of  all  the 
Harrys  of  the  line,  from  Sir  Harry  down  ; — yes,  and  all  the 
vices,  too,  they  are  good  Bergan  stock,  every  one  of 
them  ! " 

A  toast  so  perfectly  in  harmony  with  the  corrupt  atmos 
phere  of  the  bar-room  could  but  be  received  and  drunk 
with  acclamation.  Bergan,  perforce,  lifted  his  glass  to  his 
lips,  but  the  fiery  draught,  prepared  with  a  single  eye  to 
the  requirements  of  his  uncle's  sophisticated  palate,  was  so 
little  suited  to  his  OAvn  purer  taste,  that  he  set  it  down  with 


90  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

its  contents  very  little  diminished.  Observing  this,  Major 
Bergan's  face  grew  dark. 

"  That  will  never  do,  Harry,"  he  growled,  aside.  "  Don't 
disgrace  me  here,  whatever  you  may  do  at  home !  I  insist 
upon  your  emptying  your  glass  like  a  man,  and  doing  your 
part  towards  making  things  pleasant.  Now,  then,  gentle 
men,"  he  continued,  aloud,  "  be  pleased  to  make  ready  for 
toast  the  second.  We  will  drink  success  to  my  nephew's 
future  proprietorship  of  Bergan  Hall ; — may  it  come  late, 
and  last  long  !  " 

The  cords  of  conventionalism — even  the  conventional 
ism  of  a  bar-room — are  strong ;  and  Bergan  was  somewhat 
young  for  complete  independence  of  character.  Neverthe 
less,  he  was  quite  capable  of  turning  his  back  on  the  whole 
company  of  tipplers,  both  genteel  and  vulgar,  indifferent 
alike  to  their  wonder,  censure,  or  scorn,  had  it  not  been  for 
his  uncle ;  whose  wishes,  in  his  double  character  of  host 
and  relative,  seemed  entitled  to  some  degree  of  respect. 
Yet  both  instinct  and  principle  revolted  from  the  certain 
intoxication  of  the  distasteful  glass  in  his  hand.  By  a 
quick  and  dexterous  motion,  he  sent  half  its  contents  flying 
out  of  the  window  near  which  he  stood,  and  supplied  their 
place  with  water  from  a  convenient  pitcher.  Flattering 
himself  that  he  had  done  this  unobserved,  he  tried  to  swal 
low  his  disgust  at  the  place  and  the  companionship  in  which 
he  found  himself  with  the  diluted  draught. 

"That's  pretty  fair  stuff,"  said  the  Major,  setting  down 
his  empty  glass;  "it  has  just  about  the  right  snap  in  it. 
Is  there  enough  for  another  round,  Gregg  ?  " 

"  Plenty,  sir,  and  another  one  on  the  end  of  that.  I 
knew  you  didn't  like  to  see  the  bottom  of  the  bowl,  in  a 
hurry,  Major." 

"  You  are  another  Solon,  Gregg.  Your  wisdom  is  only 
to  be  equalled  by  your  disinterestedness.  Come,  gentle 
men,  fill  your  glasses  again  !  Harry,  is  your  glass  filled  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  Major  drew  near,  and  fixed  a  keen  eye 


A  BITTER   DRAUGHT.  91 

on  Bergan's  glass,  in  a  way  which  led  the  latter  to  suspect 
that  his  late  manoeuvre  had  not  been  so  suecessful  as  he  had 
imagined.  At  any  rate,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  repeat  it. 
Well,  what  matter  ?  He  had  submitted  to  his  uncle's  tyi-- 
anny  long  enough ;  he  might  as  well  free  himself  first  as 
last.  He  would  try  to  do  so  in  the  way  least  likely  to  give 
oifence. 

"Uncle,"  he  pleaded,  with  a  graceful  frankness  and 
courtesy  that  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  reach  the  Major's 
better  self,  if  it  had  been  less  under  the  vitiating  influence 
of  strong  drink, — "  uncle,  I  really  must  beg  your  kind  in 
dulgence.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  potations  so  many  nor 
so  strong;  and  whatever  I  may  be  able  to  do,  in  time, 
under  your  skilful  guidance,  I  must  now  use  a  little  discre 
tion.  Pray  excuse  me  from  taking  any  more  at  present." 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do !  "  said  the  Major,  bluntly.  "  If 
you  don't  know  how  to  drink  like  a  gentleman  and  a  Ber- 
gan,  it  is  high  time  you  should  learn.  Fill  up  his  glass, 
Gregg ;  he  shall  drink !  " 

Scarcely  were  the  insulting  words  spoken  ere  Bergan 
felt,  with  a  thrill  of  dismay,  a  hot  tingling  sensation  in  all 
his  veins,  as  if  the  blood  in  them  had  suddenly  been  turned 
to  fire.  Too  well  he  knew  what  it  meant.  The  "black 
Bergan  temper,"  which  had  been  the  one,  great  sorrow  and 
struggle  of  his  life,  thus  far,  and  which  he  had  believed  to 
be  completely  tamed,  was  stirring  within  him  in  a  way  to 
show  that,  if  it  were  not  instantly  controlled,  it  would 
carry  him,  in  its  headlong  fury,  he  knew  not  whither. 
Every  other  feeling,  every  other  thought,  were,  for  the 
moment,  swallowed  up  in  the  instinct  of  self-preservation. 
He  would  submit  to  his  uncle's  imperious  dictation,  not  that 
he  either  prized  his  love  or  feared  his  anger,  but  because 
that  treacherous  demon  within  must  at  once  feel  a  firm  foot 
upon  its  neck,  and  be  shown  that  it  could  expect  no  indul 
gence,  and  no  quarter. 

At  this  moment,  there  was  a  slight  bustle  at  the  door, 


92  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

occasioned  by  an  arrival ;  under  cover  of  which  he  again 
turned  to  the  friendly  water  pitcher,  to  make  sure  that, 
while  fleeing  from  one  fatal  influence  he  was  not  running 
blindly  into  the  leashes  of  another. 

"  Dimidium  plus  toto,  I  see,"  observed  a  well-remembered 
voice  at  his  elbow,  in  a  tone  of  good-natured  sarcasm. 
"  But  you  make  a  slight  mistake  in  your  practical  transla 
tion;  it  is  a  '  half,'  not  a  quarter  (or  I  might  say,  an  eighth) 
which  is  '  better  than  the  whole.'  And  anyway,  I  doubt  if 
old  Hesiod  meant  his  maxim  to  apply  to  punch." 

Glad  of  anything  that  promised  to  create  a  diversion, 
Bergan  turned  and  gave  the  hand  of  Richard  Causton  a 
much  more  cordial  grasp  than  he  would  have  been  likely 
to  do,  under  other  circumstances.  The  old  man,  better  ac 
customed  to  the  cold  shoulder  from  all  reputable  acquain 
tance,  returned  it  with  tears  in  his  blear  eyes,  and  for  once, 
had  no  provei'b  at  command  wherein  to  do  justice  to  his 
feelings.  Before  he  could  find  one,  Major  Bergan  came 
up,  with  a  sly  gleam  of  humor  or  of  mischief,  on  his  face. 
"  What !  you  know  Harry  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh  !  yes, 
I  remember, — you  helped  him  on  his  way  to  Bergan  Hall. 
So  much  the  better.  You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  it  was 
my  nephew  to  whom  you  showed  that  courtesy,  and  to 
drink  to  your  better  acquaintance.  All  ready  ?  " 

Bergan  turned  round  for  his  glass,  which  he  had  left 
standing  on  the  window-sill,  and,  the  sooner  to  be  done 
with  the  distasteful  business,  swallowed  at  a  gulp  what,  it 
seemed  to  him,  the  next 'moment,  must  have  been  liquid 
fire.  A  loud  laugh  from  his  uncle  told  him  to  whom  he 
was  indebted  for  the  substitution  of  raw  spirit  for  Aveak 
punch.  The  passion  which  he  had  so  promptly  smothered, 
doubly  inflamed  by  the  consciousness  of  being  betrayed 
and  the  instantaneous  action  of  the  potent  draught,  blazed 
up  Avith  sudden,  ungovernable  fury.  Feeling  that  he  Avas 
losing  control  of  temper  and  reason  together,  he  rushed 
toAvard  the  door.  At  a  sign  from  the  Major,  tAvo  or  three 


A   BITTEE    DEADGHT.  93 

of  the  bystanders  threw  themselves  in  his  way.  They 
were  instantly  sent  reeling  right  and  left  by  two  powerful 
blows.  Dick  Causton,  catching  hold  of  him  with  the 
friendly  design  of  preventing  him  from  doing  more  mis 
chief  and  provoking  more  enmity,  was  shaken  off  with  a 
violence  that  threw  him  in  a  disordered  heap  on  the  floor; 
over  which  Bergan  strode  wrathfully  towards  his  uncle, 
who  had  planted  himself  in  the  doorway.  The  spectators 
held  their  breath  to  witness  the  expected  encounter  between 
uncle  and  nephew, — Bergan  against  Bergan,  the  blood  of 
both  up,  the  hereditary  frenzy  blazing  in  each  pair  of  dark 
eyes. 

But  Bergan  was  not  quite  so  mad  as  that.  Seeing  who 
it  was  that  impeded  his  way,  he  turned  and  darted  through 
a  window  close  at  hand,  jumped  over  the  piazza  railing, 
sprang  upon  his  horse,  and  wras  off  before  the  bystanders 
had  well  recovered  their  breath,  or  Dick  had  picked  himself 
up,  with  the  caustic  observation, — 

"Perit  quod  fads  ingrato, — '  Save  a  thief  from  hang 
ing,  and  he  will  cut  your  throat.' " 

Poor  Vic ! — never  in  all  her  life  had  she  been  urged  to 
such  mad  and  merciless  speed  as  on  that  ill-starred  day. 
Protesting,  at  first,  by  various  plunges  and  rearings,  she 
finally  fell  in  with  her  master's  wild  humor,  and  sped 
through  the  village  at  a  pace  that  sent  the  foot-passengers 
to  the  fences  in  terror,  and  crowded  the  doors  and  windows 
with  wondering  gazers.  Whether  he  were  fleeing  from 
destruction,  or  riding  straight  to  it,  was  no  affair  of  hers ; 
in  either  case,  she  would  do  her  best  to  meet  his  wishes. 
The  village  was  quickly  left  behind  ;  house  after  house, 
and  field  after  field,  slid  by  in  a  swift  panorama ;  already 
they  were  turning  the  corner,  toward  the  Hall,  when  Ber- 
gan's  scattered  senses  were  suddenly  recalled  by  a  stern 
"  Halloo  !  what  are  you  about  ?  "  mingled  with  a  faint  cry 
of  alarm.  To  his  horror,  he  saw  himself  to  be  on  the  point 
of  riding  down  a  young  lady  equestrian,  who  was  on  her 


94  1IOLDEN   WITH    THE    COEDS. 

way  to  the  village,  accompanied  by  her  father.  There  was 
not  an  instant  to  lose,  not  a  moment  for  reflection ;  the 
heads  of  the  two  horses  were  almost  in  contact.  Putting 
his  whole  strength  into  one  sudden,  ill-considered  jerk,  Vic 
was  thrown  back  on  her  haunches,  and  he  and  she  rolled 
over  in  the  mud  together. 

Fortunately,  neither  was  much  hurt,  and  both  sprang 
to  their  feet  considerably  sobered  by  the  shock.  Bergan 
was  deeply  humiliated,  also;  he  would  gladly  have  com 
pounded  with  his  mortification  for  almost  any  amount  of 
physical  pain.  No  bodily  injury  could  have  made  him 
writhe  with  so  sharp  a  pang,  as  the  conviction  that  he  had 
flawed  his  claim  to  the  title  of  gentleman.  To  have  nearly 
ridden  over  a  lady,  in  a  blind  frenzy  of  rage  and  semi-intoxi 
cation,  was  a  disgrace  that  he  could  never  forget.  He  would 
gladly  have  buried  himself  in  the  mud  with  which  he  was 
already  tolerably  well  coated.  Since  he  could  not  do  that, 
he  took  off  his  hat  to  the  horseman, — he  dared  neither  ad 
dress  nor  look  at  the  lady, — and  said,  in  a  tone  that  trembled 
with  shame  and  regret, — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"  You  would  have  done  better  to  look  where  you  were 
going,"  replied  the  gentleman,  with  the  unreasoning  anger 
that  often  follows  upon  the  reaction  from  fear  and  anxiety. 
"  N"o  thanks  to  you  that  my  daughter  is  not  maimed  or 
killed ! " 

"I  think  you  mistake,  father,"  quickly  interposed  the 
young  lady,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  tremulous  from  the  recent 
shock  to  her  nerves ; — "  did  you  not  see  how  promptly  the 
gentleman  sacrificed  himself  to  save  me,  as  soon  as  he  saw 
the  danger?  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,  sir,"  she  added, 
courteously,  turning  to  Bergan. 

"Thank  you;  not  half  so  much  as  I  deserve  to  be," 
replied  he,  only  the  more  remorseful  on  account  of  the 
delicate  consideration  that  she  showed  for  him,  while  her 
cheek  was  still  blanched,  and  her  lips  trembling,  at  her  own 


A   BITTER   DRAUGHT.  95 

narrow  escape  from  danger  caused  by  his  rashness.  And, 
feeling  wholly  unworthy  to  say  another  word  to  anything 
so  pure  and  sweet,  so  utterly  incompatible  with  the  vile 
place  and  scene  which  he  had  just  quitted,  he  stood  aside, 
with  uncovered  head,  to  let  her  pass. 

Apparently,  she  would  have  lingered  long  enough  to 
make  sure  that  he  was  really  uninjured;  but  her  father, 
who  had  been  eyeing  him  keenly,  hurried  her  away.  "  Do 
you  not  see,"  he  inquired,  sharply,  as  they  rode  on,  "  that 
the  fellow  is  drunk  ?  " 

"  Impossible,  father !  He  had  such  a  fine,  noble  coun 
tenance  ! " 

"  It  will  not  be  noble  long,"  replied  the  father.  "  Neither 
will  it  be  the  first  noble  countenance  that  has  been  spoiled 
by  drunkenness,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh. 

Left  alone,  Bergan  remounted  Vic,  though  not  without 
difficulty.  The  bewildering  effect  of  his  potent  draught, 
which  had  momentarily  been  overcome  by  the  excitement 
of  his  late  adventure,  now  made  itself  felt  again.  As  he 
rode  along,  his  head  began  to  swim ;  a  deadly  nausea  seized 
him ;  his  limbs  seemed  paralyzed.  Arrived  within  the  gates 
of  his  xincle's  domain,  he  suffered  himself  to  slide  slowly 
from  the  saddle  to  the  ground;  and  almost  immediately, 
consciousness  forsook  him. 


VIII. 

AS    A    DKEAM    WHEN'    OXE    AWAKETII. 

WHEN,  in  clue  course  of  time,  Bergan  came  partially 
to  himself,  he  found  that  he  was  lying  on  his  own 
bed,  Avith  the  twilight  shadows  gathering  duskily 
in  its  hangings.     But  his  mind  was  too  dull  and  confused 

O          O 

to  trouble  itself  with  the  question  how  he  came  there,  not 
withstanding  that  his  cars  seemed  still  to  retain  the  sound 
of  low  voices,  and  his  limbs  the  pressure  of  careful  hands. 
Scarcely  had  he  unclosed  his  heavy  eyes,  ere  he  was  glad 
to  shut  them  again,  and  to  sink  anew  into  slumber. 

But  this  time,  it  was  not,  as  before,  a  profound  stupor, 
a  deaf,  blind,  torpid,  state  of  nothingness.  Though  it 
lasted  some  hours,  he  never  quite  lost  an  oppressive  sense 
of  overhanging  trouble,  imperfectly  as  its  nature  was  ap 
prehended.  Moreover,  he  was  harassed  by  dreams  of  that 
most  trying  character,  wherein  varying  images  revolve 
around  one  fixed  idea  ;  combining  the  misery  of  continual 
change  with  that  of  ceaseless  iteration  into  one  intolerable 
horror. 

Breaking,  at  length,  from  the  teasing  spell  of  these 
phantasms,  he  saw  that  it  was  past  midnight.  Through 
the  opposite  window,  he  beheld  a  pale,  waning  moon,  and, 
by  its  light,  a  gray,  dimly-outlined  landscape, — a  faint  and 
lifeless  sketch,  as  it  were,  of  a  once  bright,  breathing 
world.  While  he  looked,  over  it  came  the  black  shadow 
of  a  wind-driven  cloud,  blurring  the  lines,  here  and  there, 
into  still  grayer  indistinctness,  sweeping  across  the  lawn, 
mounting  the  steps  of  Bergan  Hall,  and  laying,  at  last,  its 
thin,  light  hand  over  his  own  brow  and  eyes. 


AS   A   DKEAM   WHEN   ONE   AWAKETH.  97 

With  it,  as  if  by  right  of  near  kinship,  a  deep  gloom 
fell  upon  his  heart.  Till  now,  it  had  not  occurred  to  him 
why  his  head  ached  so  heavily,  nor  what  weary  weight  it 
was  that  burdened  his  mind.  Yet  he  did  not — as  too  many 
would  have  done,  after  a  brief  flush  of  shame,  and  a  mo 
mentary  feeling  of  regret — seek  to  throw  off  this  burden 
by  telling  himself  that  his  late  aberration  was,  after  all,  a 
matter  of  small  moment,  since  it  was  only  what  hundreds 
like  him  had  done  before,  were  now  doing,  and  would  con 
tinue  to  do  till  the  end  of  time.  Not  of  any  such  weak 
stuff,  incapable  of  looking  his  own  acts  squarely  in  the 
face,  and  judging  them  according  to  their  merits,  was  Ber- 
gan  made.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt  as  much  humiliated  as 
if  he  had  been  the  first,  last,  only  intoxicated  young  man 
in  the  universe. 

And  this,  be  it  understood,  was  not  so  much  because  he 
had  violated  the  higher  law,  as  because  he  had  broken  his 
own  law  unto  himself.  With  the  Bergan  temper,  he  had 
also  inherited  a  fair  share  of  the  Bergan  pride,  and  the 
Bergan  strength  of  will.  But,  softened  and  guided  by 
home  influences  at  once  wise  and  genial,  the  one  had 
hitherto  shown  itself  mainly  in  a  lofty,  almost  an  ideal, 
purity  of  character,  and  the  other  had  expended  its  force 
chiefly  upon  himself.  The  two,  therefore,  had  served  him 
little  less  effectually,  in  keeping  him  free  from  current 
vices,  than  higher  motives  might  have  done.  He  had 
taken  a  stern,  proud  pleasure  in  knowing  that  he  wore 
no  yoke  but  such  as  it  pleased  him  deliberately  to  assume, 
lie  would  have  scorned  to  say,  what  he  often  heard 
from  the  lips  of  his  fellows, — "  I  cannot  quit  drinking, 
I  cannot  live  without  smoking,  I  cannot  resist  the  fascina 
tions  of  gambling,"  et  cetera ; — he  would  have  felt  it  a 
woful  slur  upon  his  manhood  to  avow  himself  so  abject  a 
slave  to  his  animal  natui'e.  So  strong  was  this  pride  of 
character,  that  no  sooner  did  he  feel  any  habit,  any  appe 
tite,  any  pleasure,  however  innocent  in  itself,  taking  firm 
5 


98  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

hold  of  him,  than  he  was  immediately  impelled  to  give  it 
up,  to  refuse  it  indulgence, — for  a  time,  at  least, — just  to 
satisfy  one  part  of  himself  that  its  control  over  the  other 
and  baser  part  was  still  perfect.  At  whatever  price,  he 
was  determined  to  be  his  own  master. 

It  may  be  imagined,  then,  with  what  sharp  sting  of 
pride,  what  miserable  sense  of  weakness  and  failure,  he 
writhed,  as  Memory  now  flung  open  the  doors  of  her  silent 
gallery,  and  showed  him  sombre  picture  after  picture,  rep 
resenting  his  own  figure  in  divers  humiliating  positions. 
It  shrank  from  the  utterance  of  its  strong  convictions  of 
right ;  it  gave  way  to  the  assaults  of  a  poor  ambition  ;  it 
drifted  with  circumstance  ;  it  was  driven  to  and  fro  like  a 
shuttlecock  between  outward  temptation  and  inward  pas 
sion  ;  it  was  successively  a  fighting  rowdy,  a  blind  lunatic, 
an  insensate  drunkard. 

Not  that  these  representations  were  all  true  in  tone, 
unexaggerated  in  color,  and  correct  in  sentiment.  Often, 
there  is  nothing  more  difficult  than  to  fix  upon  the  exact 
point  where  the  plain  boundary  line  between  right  and 
wrong  was  crossed ;  and  neither  pride  nor  remorse  is  apt 
to  do  it  correctly.  Some  steps  may  have  been  taken  upon  a 
kind  of  debatable  ground  ;  had  the  march  been  arrested  at 
any  one  of  these,  its  tendency  would  have  been  different. 
In  reviewing  his  conduct,  Bergan  failed  to  do  justice  either 
to  his  uncle's  undeniable  claims  to  his  respectful  considera 
tion,  up  to  the  point  where  he  had  been  required  to  follow 
him  into  a  low  bar-room,  or  to  the  real  beauty  and  worth 
of  some  of  his  own  feelings  and  motives.  Looking  back, 
he  saw — or  seemed  to  see — only  a  pitiable  cai'eer  of  irreso 
lution  and  moral  cowardice,  ending  in  disgrace.  Covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  unwelcome 
sight,  he  groaned  aloud. 

To  his  surprise,  the  groan  was  distinctly  prolonged  and 
repeated.  Was  it  the  responsive  wail  of  the  ancestral 
spirits,  mourning  over  their  degenerate  scion,  or  only  the 


AS    A   DREAM   WHEN    ONE   AWAKETH.  99 

sympathizing  echo  of  the  ancestral  walls?  Springing  to 
liis  feet,  he  beheld  a  tall,  erect  figure  standing  on  the 
hearth,  showing  strangely  weird  and  .  unearthly  by  the 
liickering  blaze  of  a  few  dying  embers.  Not  till  it  turned 
and  came  toward  him  did  he  recognize  the  dusky  features 
and  age-whitened  hair  of  Ma  timer  Rue. 

"I  hope  that  it  is  not  on  my  account  that  you  are 
up  at  this  time  of  night,"  said  he,  gravely. 

"  You  forget  that  night  and  day  are  both  alike  to  me," 
she  quietly  answered.  "  Are  you  better?  " 

"  Much  better,  thank  you."  And  he  added  after  a  mo 
ment, — "  How  came  I  here  ?  " 

"  Brick  found  you  in  the  avenue.  By  my  direction,  you 
were  brought  in.  At  first,  it  was  thought  that  you  had 
been  thrown  from  your  horse,  but — " 

Rue  paused. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Bergan,  bitterly.     "  I  was  drunk." 

Rue  did  not  immediately  answer.  It  was  only  after 
some  moments  that  she  said,  earnestly ; — 

"  Master  Bergan,  I  am  an  old  woman.  I  have  seen  four 
generations  of  your  house, — I  have  nursed  two, — and  I 
have  spent  my  life  in  its  service.  If  it  had  been  my  own, 
I  could  not  have  loved  it  better,  nor  felt  its  welfare  nearer 
my  heart.  If  these  things  give  me  any  right  to  say  a  word 
of  warning  to  you,  let  me  say  it  now ! " 

"  Say  whatever  seems  good  to  you,"  replied  Bergan, 
gloomily,  as  he  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  "  I  doubt  if 
you  can  say  anything  so  hard  to  bear  as  what  I  have 
already  said  to  myself." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  asked  Rue,  in  a  tone  of  relief — "  is  that 
really  so  ?  Then  I  need  not  say  anything.  It  is  a  higher 
voice  than  mine  that  speaks  within  you ;  and  my  poor 
words  would  only  weaken  its  effect.  Only  listen  to  it, 
Master  Bergan,  pray  listen  to  it ! "  she  went  on,  with  tears 
streaming  from  her  blind  eyes.  "  If  you  stifle  it  now,  it 
may  never  speak  so  clearly  again  !  " 


100  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

"  Make  yourself  easy,  maumer,"  answered  Bergan,  much 
affected,  yet  doing  his  best  to  speak  cheerfully, — "I  have 
not  the  least  intention  of  stifling  it.  Moreover,  I  assure 
you  that  I  am  in  no  danger  of  repeating  last  night's  miser 
able  experience  ;  drunkenness  is  not  my  besetting  sin.  I 
only  wish  I  were  as  certain  that  I  should  never  again  give 
way  to  my  temper." 

"  It  has  run  in  the  blood  a  great  while,"  remarked  Rue, 
not  without  a  certain  respect  for  its  length  of  pedigree ;  "  it 
will  be  hard  to  get  it  out." 

"  It  shall  be  gotten  out,  though,"  responded  Bergan, 
knitting  his  brows  and  setting  his  teeth  with  true  hered 
itary  doggedness. 

"Very  likely  it  may,"  replied  Rue,  quietly,  "if  you 
take  that  tone.  No  doubt  the  Lord  meant  the  Bergan  will 
to  conquer  the  Bergan  temper — with  His  help.  But  I  will 
not  trouble  you  any  longer,  sir  ; — thank  you  for  setting  my 
mind  at  rest.  And  don't  be  offended  if  I  recommend  you 
not  to  come  in  your  uncle's  way  this  morning ;  give  him  a 
little  time  to  get  into  a  better  mood.  I  will  send  your 
breakfast  out  to  you." 

Bergan's  brow  darkened.  "  I  do  not  intend  to  come  in 
his  way,"  he  answered  a  little  shortly,  "neither  this  morn 
ing,  nor  at  any  other  time.  My  visit  here  is  at  an  end.  I 
leave  this  house  directly." 

"  Oh,  Master  Bergan,  I  beg  you  will  not  do  that ! "  ex 
claimed  Rue.  "  Your  uncle  really  loves  you  in  his  heart ; 
he  will  soon  forget  all  about  his  anger." 

"  It  is  not  because  I  dread  his  anger  that  I  go,"  replied 
Bergan,  gravely;  "it  is  because  he  has  lowered  me  in  my 
own  eyes,  and  disgraced  me  in  the  eyes  of  others,  in  a  way 
that  I  cannot  forget.  At  least,  not  until  I  have  proved  to 
myself  that  I  am  neither  a  moral  coward  nor  a  miserable 
parasite,  and  to  the  world  that  drinking  and  fighting  are 
not  the  essential  conditions  of  my  existence.  I  cannot  well 
do  either  without  leaving  Bergan  Hall.  And  I  certainly 


AS    A   DREAM    WHEN    ONE    AWAKETH.  101 

shall  not  put  myself  in  ray  uncle's  way  again,  until  he 
sees  fit  to  apologize  for  what  he  did  yesterday." 

"  Is  the  world  turned  upside  down,  then,"  asked  Rue, 
with  a  kind  of  slow  wonder,  "  that  an  old  uncle  must  apol 
ogize  to  a  young  nephew  ?  " 

Bergan  colored,  and  the  unwonted  bitterness  and  irrita 
tion  of  his  manner  gave  way  before  the  force  of  the  implied 
rebuke. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  almost  in  his  natural  tone,  "  I  see 
that  I  am — or,  at  least,  that  I  was, — a  little  beside  myself. 
Still,  I  must  leave  Bergan  Hall.  I  cannot  think  it  right  or 
expedient  to  remain  here  longer.  But  when  I  have  put 
myself  in  the  way  of  living  independently,  and  cleared  up 
my  reputation,  I  will  do  what  I  can,  without  loss  of  self- 
respect,  to  establish  friendly  relations  with  my  uncle.  In 
deed,  I  do  not  mean  to  be  foolishly  resentful,  nor  unbe 
comingly  exacting." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  are  going  to  do  ?  "  inquired  Rue, 
after  a  few  moments  of  thought. 

"  Certainly.  I  am  going  to  carry  out  my  original  plan, 
and  my  mother's  express  wish,  by  opening  a  law-office  in 
Berganton,  and  doing  my  best  to  win  fame  and  fortune  in 
the  place  which  my  ancestors  founded ;  and  in  which,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile,  "  their  shades  may  reasonably  be  ex 
pected  to  watch  my  career  with  especial  interest,  and  also 
to  do  me  a  good  turn,  whenever  they  have  it  in  their 
power." 

"  "Well,"  said  Rue,  after  a  long  pause,  "  perhaps  you  are 
right.  I  think  I  begin  to  see  that  it  may  be  quite  as  well 
for  you  to  go  away,  for  a  time.  You  shall  not  lose  any 
thing  by  it ;  I  will  take  care  of  that.  I  have  more  influ 
ence  with  your  uncle  than  you  would  think.  And  I  prom 
ise  you, — remember,  I  promise  you,"  she  repeated,  with 
marked  emphasis, — "  whatever  comes,  you  shall  have  Ber 
gan  Hall." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.     "I  think  not,"  said 


102  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

he.  "  Indeed,  I  have  ceased  to  wish  for  it ;  I  do  not  see 
any  place  for  it  in  the  life  which  I  now  contemplate.  It 
was  but  a  pleasant  day-dream,  at  best ;  and  it  is  over." 

"  It  may  be  over  for  you,"  rejoined  Rue,  quietly,  "  but  it 
is  not  over  for  me.  And  my  dreams  are  apt  to  come  true.  I 
may  not  live  to  see  it, — indeed,  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that 
I  shall  not, — but  the  Hall  will  surely  be  yours,  one  day." 

Bergan  again  shook  his  head.  Without  making  any 
pretensions  to  the  prophetic  gift,  he  thought  he  could  fore 
tell,  better  than  old  Rue,  the  effect  of  the  course  which  he 
had  marked  out  for  himself,  upon  his  uncle.  But  the  blind 
woman  could  not  see  the  gesture ;  and  he  forebore  to  put 
his  doubt  into  words, — unless  its  subtle  prompting  was  to 
be  detected  in  his  next  apparently  irrelevant  sentence : — 

"  I  shall  think  it  one  of  my  first  duties  to  go  and  see 
my  uncle  Godfrey." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  Rue,  placidly.  "  He  is 
a  wise,  just  man ;  and  no  doubt  he  will  give  you  good 
advice  about  setting  up  your  profession.  I  have  been 
hoping  that,  through  you,  this  long  family  breach  would 
be  healed." 

And  here  the  conversation  strayed  off  amid  thick-grow 
ing  family  topics,  where  it  is  unnecessary  to  follow  it. 

Gray  dawn  was  in  the  east  when,  after  a  long,  lingering 
look  at  the  ancestral  portraits,  Bergan  went  out  from  the 
old  Hall.  He  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  less  than 
a  week  since  he  first  entered  it.  He  had  passed  there  one 
of  those  crises  of  life  which  do  the  work  of  years.  His 
short  occupancy  had  left  its  indelible  impress  upon  his 
character,  for  good  or  evil. 

Rue  attended  him  to  the  door,  and  detained  him  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold. 

"  If  ever  you  are  in  need  of  a  quiet  place  where  you 
can  feel  perfectly  at  home,"  said  she,  "  come  here.  Your 
room  shall  always  be  ready  for  you ;  and  you  might  stay 
here  for  weeks  together,  and  no  one  be  the  wiser, — rarely 


AS    A    DREAM   WHEN   ONE    AWAKETII.  103 

docs  any  one  but  me  come  inside  the  door.  And  if  ever 
you  should  be  in  any  trouble,  or  in  any  want,  come  and 
see  what  the  old,  blind  woman  can  do  for  you;  she  may 
be  better  able  to  help  you  than  you  think.  And  now,  good 
bye,  and  God  bless  you,  my  dear  young  master — the  future 
master  of  Bergan  Hall !  " 

She  raised  her  withered  hands  and  sightless  eyes  to 
heaven,  as  she  ended;  and  when  Bergan  looked  back  from 
the  farther  verge  of  the  lawn,  she  was  standing  there  still, 
in  the  dim  dawn-light,  a  gray,  venerable,  ghostly  figure, 
framed  in  his  ancestral  doorway,  calling  down  blessings  on 
his  head. 


IX. 

THE   BLOT   CLEAVES. 

~^T~OUTHFUL  spirits  have  a  natural  buoyancy  that 
floats  them  easily  over  the  first  wave  of  trouble, 
however  severe.  Tt  is  the  long  succession  of  wear 
ing  disappointments  and  corroding  griefs,  of  anxious  days 
and  restless  nights,  of  abortive  aims  and  hopes  deferred, 
which  finally  overcomes  their  lightsomeness,  and  sinks 
them  fathoms  deep  under  a  smooth-flowing  surface  of  gentle 
cheerfulness,  a  teasing  ebb  and  flow  of  worriment,  or  an 
icy  plane  of  despair*-* 

But  of  this  grievous  iteration,  and  its  depressing  effect, 
Bergan,  as  yet,  had  no  experience.  His  heart  involuntarily 
grew  lighter  as  he  went  down  the  long  avenue.  The  old 
Hall,  with  its  dust-clogged  and  tradition-darkened  atmos 
phere,  its  dusky  delights  and  duskier  temptations,  seemed 
to  fade  back  again  into  the  unsubstantiality  of  his  child 
hood's  visions.  His  sojourn  there  was,  at  best,  but  a  brief, 
casual  episode  in  an  otherwise  coherent  life.  He  now  re 
curred  to  the  main  argument.  Not  that  he  could  foresee 
precisely  how  it  was  to  be  wrought  out.  But  the  very 
uncertainty  before  him  was  not  without  its  own  special  and 
potent  charm.  It  gave  such  unlimited  scope  to  hope  and 
imagination ;  there  was  in  it  so  much  room  for  sturdy 
endeavor  and  noble  achievement,  for  an  iron  age  of  progress, 
and  a  golden  era  of  fame ! 

It  was  still  early  when  he  reached  the  Berganton  Hotel. 
The  landlord  was  in  the  otfice ;  he  was  also  in  the  midst  of 
a  pi-olonged  matutinal  stretch  and  yawn,  when  Bergan  sur- 
pi'ised  him  with  a  pleasant ; — 


THE    BLOT   CLEAVES.  105 

"  Good  morning.     Have  you  a  vacant  room  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir, — that  is,  I  will  see,"  was  the  somewhat  incon 
clusive  reply;  its  first  clause  being  due  to  the  favorable 
impression  made  by  Bergan's  face  and  manner,  and  its  last 
to  prudential  considerations  arising  from  the  quickly  recog 
nized  facts  that  this  prepossessing  young  man  was  on  foot, 
and  without  baggage.  "  Do  you  want  it  long  ?  " 

"I  can  hardly  tell, — some  days,  perhaps;  possibly 
longer.  I  wish  to  see  if  it  be  worth  my  while  to  locate 
myself  permanently  here.  My  name  is  Bergan  Arling. 
My  baggage  is  to  be  sent  over  from  Bergan  Hall." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  the  landlord,  in  a  tone  which  implied 
that  he  had  suddenly  been  lifted  to  a  point  of  observation 
at  once  wide  and  unpromising.  And  almost  immediately 
he  added, — "  On  the  whole,  I  believe  I  haven't  got  an  elig 
ible  room  to  offer  you.  The  one  that  I  thought  of  at  first 
is  partially  engaged  ;  I  cannot  let  it  go  till  I  know  the 
gentleman's  decision." 

Bergan  was  gifted  with  perceptions  too  quick  and  fine 
not  to  notice  the  unfavorable  effect  produced  by  his  frank 
explanation  of  himself.  Nor  was  he  slow  to  divine  the 
cause.  No  doubt  his  name  had  been  bruited  abroad  in 
connection  with  the  disgraceful  scenes  of  yesterday ;  and, 
as  a  natural  consequence,  in  the  very  place  where  it  would 
otherwise  have  been  an  advantage  to  him,  it  would  now 
stand  in  his  way.  His  heart  sank  a  little  to  find  that  he 
had  not  left  yesterday's  acts  so  completely  behind  him  as 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  believe.  He  had  still  to  endure 
his  inevitable  term  of  bondage  to  their  evil  consequences. 

Yet  herein,  he  remembered,  was  his  strongest  motive 
for  perseverance  in  the  path  upon  which  he  had  entered. 
He  could  not  leave  a  tarnished  reputation  behind  him  in 
the  place  founded  by  his  ancestors, — the  very  dust  of 
which,  blowing  about  the  streets,  doubtless  held  many 
particles  closely  akin  to  his  own  earthly  substance,  and 
dimly  capable  of  pride  or  shame  on  his  account.  At 
5* 


106  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

whatever  cost  of  present  pain  or  ulterior  loss,  he  must 
stay  in  Berganton  long  enough  to  set  himself  right  in  the 
public  eyes. 

And  loss,  it  was  plain,  there  might  be.  Berganton  was 
no  longer  the  busy  and  prosperous  town  of  his  mother's 
reminiscences.  All  these  years,  it  had  been  going  back 
wards.  Looking  up  and  down  its  long,  tame,  principal 
street,  with  its  scant  and  sluggish  flow  of  human  life,  he 
could  discover  little  field  for  energy,  little  scope  for  am 
bition.  Were  it  not  for  the  cords  of  obligation  woven 
around  him  by  yesterday's  events,  he  would  scarcely  have 
stayed  for  a  second  look.  But  those  cords  held  him  firmly 
to  his  purpose. 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  respectable  family  where  I 
should  be  likely  to  obtain  board,  or,  at  least,  lodgings  ?  " 
was  his  next  inquiry. 

"  I  do  not.  I  think  they  might  take  you  in  at  the 
Gregg  House,  down  at  the  lower  end  of  the  street." 

The  words  were  spoken  carelessly  enough,  yet  Bei-gan 
could  scarcely  fail  to  detect  in  them  a  covert  insinuation, 
or  to  imagine  one.  His  cheek  crimsoned,  and  his  eye 
flashed.  Ere  he  could  speak,  however,  a  gentleman  whom 
he  had  observed  sitting  near  him,  with  a  newspaper  before 
his  face,  dropped  the  printed  screen,  and  came  forward. 

"  Mr.  Arling  can  breakfast  here,  at  any  rate,"  said  he, 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  accustomed  to  overcome  all  obstacles ; 
"  it  will  give  me  pleasure  to  have  him  for  my  vis-d-vis  at 
the  early  breakfast  that  I  have  bespoken  this  morning,  in 
order  to  gain  time  for  a  visit  to  a  far-away  patient.  And 
you  can  at  least  give  him  the  room  of  which  you  speak 
until  it  is  called  for ;  by  that  time,  we  will  hope,  he  may 
be  provided  with  one  even  moi'e  to  his  mind." 

"  Certainly,  doctor,"  returned  the  landlord,  looking  a 
little  crestfallen.  "  If  I  had  known  the  gentleman  was  a 
friend  of  yours — " 

"  Hardly  that  yet,"    interposed    the   doctor,   smiling, 


THE    BLOT    CLEAVES.  107 

"  though  I  trust  he  may  be,  in  good  time.  I  know  your 
uncle  very  well,"  he  continued,  addressing  Bergan,  as  the 
landlord  moved  away, — "  indeed,  I  may  say,  your  two 
uncles, — if  that  be  any  ground  of  acquaintance.  But  I 
have  the  advantage  of  you,  in  that  I  heai'd  your  name  just 
now  ; — mine  is  Remy — Felix  Remy — very  much  at  your 
service.  Not  that  this  announcement  places  us  on  an 
equal  footing ;  for,  while  your  name  puts  me  at  once  in 
possession  of  your  antecedents,  to  a  certain  extent,  mine 
tells  you  nothing  about  me  except  that  I  am  of  French 
descent.  Are  you  willing  to  take  the  rest  on  trust,  until 
a  fitting  time  for  a  fuller  explanation  ?  "  And  the  doctor 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  Until  the  end  of  time,"  replied  Bergan,  grasping  it 
warmly.  "  It  would  be  strange  if  kindness  were  not  its 
own  sufficient  explanation." 

Doctor  Remy  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  frank  cyni 
cism.  "  Perhaps  so,"  said  he.  "  Yet  I  make  bold  to 
confess  that  my  own  practice  is  to  look  kindness  a  little 
more  closely  in  the  face  than  its  opposite.  The  latter 
generally  wears  its  reasons  openly  on  its  forehead  ;  but  for 
the  complicated  motives  at  the  bottom  of  the  former,  one 
needs  to  look  long  and  deep." 

"  Do  they  pay  for  the  trouble  ?  "  asked  Bergan,  smil 
ing. 

"  Not  unless  you  love  knowledge  for  its  own  sake.  As 
society  is  constituted,  you  cannot  well  act  upon  it.  To 
apparent  kindness,  one  has  to  return  apparent  gratitude." 

"  I  trust  I  succeed  in  making  mine  '  apparent,' "  said 
Bergan,  falling  into  the  doctor's  humor. 

"  Perfectly.  It  could  not  be  told  from  the  genuine 
article." 

"  The  same  thing  might  be  said  of  your  kindness." 

"  Doubtless.  But  here  comes  Cato,  to  show  you  to  your 
room.  I  think  breakfast  will  be  ready  as  soon  as  you 
are." 


108  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   CC-RDS. 

A  very  few  moments  sufficed  for  Bergan  to  remove  the 
traces  of  his  early  morning  walk,  and  rejoin  his  new  ac 
quaintance  in  the  breakfast-room.  The  two  gentlemen  at 
once  seated  themselves  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table.  An 
opportunity  was  thus  afforded  them  to  observe  each  other 
at  their  leisure,  of  which  Bergan  was  first  to  avail  himself. 
His  interest  had  been  awakened  by  the  doctor's  peculiar 
style  of  conversation. 

He  saw  before  him  a  man  of  medium  height  and 
compactly  built  figure.  His  locks  had  been  touched  by 
thought  or  care  to  a  premature  grayness,  for  he  had 
scarcely  yet  entered  upon  middle  age.  His  features  were 
regular,  and  would  have  been  handsome  had  they  been 
less  keenly  and  coldly  intellectual, — the  physical  mould 
was  forgotten  in  the  mental  one  that  made  itself  so  much 
more  manifest.  Their  expression  was  one  of  active  intelli 
gence  and  calm  force,  embittered,  at  the  mouth,  by  a  touch 
of  scorn.  Yet  the  face  did  not  absolutely  repel ;  for  many 
minds,  it  would  possess  an  inscrutable  fascination.  It  pro 
voked  study ;  it  challenged  the  imagination  arid  the  under 
standing. 

The  doctor's  conversation  was  marked  by  a  curious 
frankness,  and  an  equally  curious  reserve.  He  made  no 
scruple  whatever  of  opening  to  the  light  of  day  shadowy 
recesses  of  motive  and  aim  that  most  men  would  studiously 
close,  nor  of  putting  himself  at  odds  with  the  world  on 
various  points  of  social  or  moral  ethics,  nor  of  boldly  ques 
tioning  and  criticising  much  that  mankind  consents  to  hold 
in  reverence.  Yet,  at  the  end  of  an  hour's  conversation, 
though  he  had  talked  readily  and  fluently  on  many  sub 
jects,  and  said  something  true,  or  profound,  or  brilliant,  or 
suggestive,  about  each,  his  interested,  amused,  startled, 
and  bewildered  hearer  could  find  almost  no  residuum  of 
his  real  opinions  about  any  of  them.  It  was  impossible  to 
decide  where  he  had  been  in  jest,  and  where  in  earaest ; 
through  his  most  sei'ious  ai'gument  had  run  a  vein  of 


THE   BLOT  CLEAVES.  109 

mockery,  from  under  his  profoundest  thought  had  peeped 
forth  a  hidden  sarcasm.  His  creed,  social,  moral,  and 
political,  continually  slipped  through  the  seeker's  fingers 
in  subtle,  witty,  or  scornful  negations  and  controversions. 

Not  that  Bergan  was  conscious  of  this,  at  the  moment, 
— nor,  indeed,  until  after  many  days  of  familiar  intercourse. 
He  recognized  in  the  doctor  an  intellectual  cultivation  of 
no  ordinary  depth  and  scope ;  he  was  interested  and  well- 
nigh  dazzled  by  his  originality  of  thought,  the  boldness  of 
his  attacks,  and  the  freedom  of  his  speculations ;  but  the 
dubious  aspect  of  his  own  affairs  continually  rose  before 
him  to  hai-ass  his  mind  and  distract  his  attention ; — he 
was  himself  incapable  of  close  observation  or  continuous 
thought.  After  a  time,  his  glance  sank  upon  his  plate,  or 
wandered  aimlessly  out  of  the  window  :  though  he  forgot 
no  requirement  of  courtesy,  he  was  often  in  a  state  of  semi- 
abstraction. 

Then,  in  his  turn,  Doctor  Remy  fixed  his  eyes  upon  his 
companion.  It  was  evident  that  he  subjected  him  to  a  far 
more  careful  and  penetrating  scrutiny  than  he  had  sus 
tained  himself.  He  noted  his  looks,  he  wreighed  his  words, 
he  analyzed  his  turns  of  thought,  in  a  way  to  indicate  that 
exceeding  "  love  of  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,"  of  which 
he  had  spoken,  or  some  deeper  motive  than  even  his  hardy 
frankness  would  care  to  divulge.  Whether  or  no  he  liked 
what  he  saw,  no  mortal  could  have  told.  The  doctor's 
face  was  a  sort  of  mechanical  mask,  absolutely  under  his 
control;  it  expressed  anything  or  nothing,  according  to 
his  will. 

One  thing  only  would  have  been  plain  to  the  observer, 
that  he  was  puzzled  by  something  which  he  found,  or  did 
not  find.  After  one  of  his  deeply  penetrating  glances,  he 
suddenly  called  for  a  bottle  of  wine,  and,  first  filling  his 
own  glass,  passed  it  across  the  table. 

"  I  am  fortifying  myself  for  a  harder  day's  work  than 
usual,"  said  he,  as  if  by  way  of  apology,  if  apology  were 


110  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

needed.  "  Will  you  try  it  ?  I  think  I  can  assure  you 
that  it  is  tolerably  good." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  never  take  wine  at  breakfast." 

"  Anything  else  that  you  would  prefer — "  began  the 
doctor,  courteously. 

"  Nothing  whatever,  thank  you,"  replied  Bergan,  with 
a  most  conclusive  wave  of  the  hand. 

"Then  you  do  not  hold  the  theory  that  a  little  good 
wine,  or  other  spirits,  after  a  meal,  clears  the  brain,  and 
aids  the  digestion  ?  " 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  stood  in  need  of  either  good  office?" 
asked  Bergan,  smiling. 

The  doctor  gave  him  a  quick,  critical  glance. 

"No,  I  cannot  see  that  you  do,"  he  answered.  "I 
should  say  that,  in  your  case,  Nature  might  safely  be  left 
to  perform  her  own  functions ; — I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw 
human  mechanism  in  a  sounder  condition,  or  animated  by 
a  richer  vitality.  Still,  there  can  be  no  great  harm  in 
drinking  in  moderation/  Of  course,  if  one  cannot  do  that, 
it  is  best  to  avoid  it  altogether." 

Bergan  looked  up  quickly, — almost  angrily, — but  there 
was  nothing  in  the  doctor's  face  or  manner  to  indicate 
that  his  general  remai-k  was  weighted  with  any  ulterior 
meaning.  He  was  holding  his  wine  up  to  the  light  with 
the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  and  having  sufficiently  enjoyed  its 
color  and  bouquet,  he  tossed  it  off  with  apparent  relish. 
Yet  Bergan  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  notice,  had  he 
been  less  preoccupied,  that  he  then  quietly  pushed  both 
glass  and  bottle  aside,  and  seemed  to  forget  their  exist 
ence. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  before  I  set  off  on  my 
daily  treadmill  ?  "  he  asked,  when  the  meal  was  ended. 

"  Nothing,  thank  you, — unless  you  can  tell  me  where 
I  shall  be  most  likely  to  find  lodgings  and  an  office." 

"  An  office,  did  you  say  ?  Do  I  behold  in  you  a  brother 
of  the  order  of  the  Asclepiada)?  " 


TUB    BLOT   CLEAVES.  Ill 

"No,  I  have  not  that  honor.  I  am  enrolled  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Law." 

"  How  many  pegs  shall  I  take  myself  down,  in  your 
estimation,  if  I  proclaim  myself  a  deserter  therefrom  ?  " 

Bergan  could  not  help  looking  the  astonishment  that 
he  did  not  express. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  doctor,  answering  the  look.  "  I 
studied  law,  and  practised  it  for  about  two  years.  But  it 
did  not  suit  me." 

"  Would  it  be  impertinent  to  ask  why  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  It  gave  too  much  scope,  or  too  little,  to 
my  natural  antagonism  of  mind; — too  little  for  mental 
satisfaction,  too  much  for  material  advantage.  For  in 
stance,  I  was  always  possessed  with  an  insane  desire  to 
clear  the  guilty  man,  whether  he  were  my  client,  or  no." 

"  Yet  you  deny  to  yourself  the  credit  of  generous 
impulses ! " 

"  Stay  a  little.  I  was  often  assailed  with  an  equally 
insane  desire  to  convict  the  innocent  one — when  he  was 
not  my  client.  Do  not  look  so  horrified,  for  the  same 
motive  was  at  the  bottom  of  both.  It  was  because  I  saw 
so  clearly  that,  with  an  exchange  of  circumstances, — in 
herited  traits,  education,  temptation,  and  so  forth, — there 
would  also  be  an  exchange  of  persons." 

"  In  that  case,  it  would  seem  that  neither  should  be 
convicted." 

"  Exactly.  But  it  was  Society  that  needed  to  be  con 
victed  and  punished.  There  was  a  real  satisfaction  in 
reversing  its  unrighteous  judgments." 

Bergan  felt  that  he  was  sinking  in  a  kind  of  mental 
quicksand.  "  But,"  he  objected,  catching  hold  of  the  first 
twig  of  support  that  offered  itself,  "  you  count  the  man's 
will  for  nothing." 

"  With  most  men,  it  does  count  for  nothing.  Where 
one  man  performs  either  a  good  or  a  bad  action  delibe 
rately,  looking  behind  and  before  him,  nine  hundred  and 


112  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

ninety-nine  do  it  because  of  the  pressure  of  outward 
circumstance." 

"You  think,  then,"  said  Bergan,  after  a  moment's  con 
sideration,  "  that  when  a  man  wilfully  embarks  on  the 
current  which  tends  toward  the  Niagara  cataract,  it  is  his 
misfortune,  and  not  his  fault,  if  he  finally  finds  himself  at  a 
point  where  the  pressure  of  outward  circumstance  must 
needs  carry  him  over  the  fall." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  doctor,  "the  responsibility 
shifts  back  to  the  power  that  made  the  current  and  the 
fall,  and  put  them  in  his  way." 

Bergan  saw  the  wide  labyrinth  of  controversy  open 
ing  before  him,  and  tacitly  declined  to  set  foot  in  it.  He 
was  in  no  mood  for  polemics.  He  merely  asked, — 

"And  in  what  way — if  the  question  is  admissible — do 
you  find  medicine  more  to  your  taste  than  the  law  ?  " 

"  In  medicine,  there  is  always  a  distinct  and  a  legitimate 
foe  to  combat — disease.  When  one  engages  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  fierht  with  a  fever,  there  are  no  side  issues.  Nor 

O  •> 

does  it  matter  in  the  least  whether  battle  is  to  be  done 
over  the  body  of  an  incarnate  demon  or  an  angel  un 
fledged, — in  both  cases,  the  treatment  is  identical,  the 
physician's  duty  the  same." 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Bergan,  after  a  pause, 
during  which  he  had  been  trying  to  reconcile  these  curious 
and  half  conflicting  statements  with  some  underlying  prin 
ciples,  and  finding  it,  at  last,  in  his  own  heart,  rather  than 
in  the  doctor's  words ; — "  a  physician's  professional  and 
abstract  duty  are  never  at  variance,  while  a  lawyer  must 
often  be  puzzled  to  decide  if  he  is  justified  in  using  his 
legal  skill  to  save  a  criminal  from  merited  punishment." 

"  It  is  a  question  that  puzzles  few  of  them,"  remarked 
the  doctor,  dryly.  "  But  in  regard  to  this  office,  in  posse, 
of  yours ; — I  rent  my  own  from  a  very  respectable  widow 
lady,  whose  house  is  much  too  large  for  the  narrow  income 
to  which  she  found  herself  restricted,  at  her  husband's 


THE   BLOT   CLEAVES.  113 

death.  I  think  she  has  another  room,  that  she  would  be 
glad  to  let  to  an  eligible  tenant.  Shall  we  go  and  see? 
It  is  quite  in  my  way ;  I  must  visit  my  office  before  I  set 
out  on  my  rounds." 

The  house  won  Bergan's  liking,  at  a  glance.  It  stood 
on  a  corner ;  it  was  large  and  airy ;  double  piazzas  sur 
rounded  it  on  three  sides ;  over  it  a  hale  old  live-oak  and 
half-a-dozen  gray,  decrepit  china-trees  flung  their  pleasant 
shade.  In  the  rear,  was  a  tempting  thicket  of  a  garden, 
which  Art  had  first  planted,  and  then  handed  over  to 
Nature,  to  be  taken  care  of  at  her  leisure, — the  result  being 
an  altogether  admirable  and  Eden-like  wilderness  of 
boughs  and  vines,  and,  in  their  season,  flowers  and  fruits, 
such  as  can  be  seen  nowhere  but  at  the  South.  The  in 
terior  of  the  dwelling  wore  a  most  atti'active  look  of  neat 
ness,  comfort,  and  refinement,  notwithstanding  its  extreme 
plainness  of  finish  and  furniture.  Crossing  its  threshold, 
he  felt  that  a  true  home  had  received  him  into  its  be 
neficent  shadow.  Nothing  could  be  better  for  him,  he 
thought,  than  to  find  an  abiding  place  therein. 

Nor  was  there  any  difficulty  in  the  way.  The  doctor's 
magical  touch  arranged  the  preliminaries.  Then,  Mrs. 
Lyte, — a  pale,  sweet,  fragile-looking  woman,  with  the  gentle 
gravity  of  manner  that  comes  of  sorrow  at  once  incurable 
and  resigned — yielded  at  once  to  the  magnetism  of  Bergan's 
address, — the  involuntary  softening  of  tone  wherewith  he 
recognized  the  claim  of  her  black  gai'ments  upon  his  sym 
pathies,  the  manifest  deference  which  he  paid  to  her  lone 
liness,  her  bereavement,  her  sorrow.  Since  it  was  needful 
to  saci'ifice  something  of  the  home  seclusion  and  sacredness 

O 

to  the  necessity  of  daily  bread,  she  could  not  hope  for  a 
more  desirable  tenant.  The  negotiations  were  quickly  con 
cluded.  Not  only  was  an  office  secured,  but  a  lodging- 
room  in  its  rear  was  also  placed  at  his  disposal ;  and  he 
was  to  take  his  meals  at  the  hotel. 

Returning  thither,  and  finding  that  his  baggage  had 


114  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

duly  arrived  from  the  Hall,  Bergan's  active  temperament 
would  not  let  him  rest  until  he  had  transported  it  to  his 
new  quarters,  and  gotten  them  in  tolerable  order.  In  this 
business  he  consumed  the  greater  part  of  the  day.  The 
sun  was  low  in  the  horizon,  when,  by  way  of  a  finishing 
touch,  he  nailed  a  tin  plate,  bearing  in  gilt  letters  the 
words, — "  BERGAN  ARLING,  ATTORNEY  AT  LAW,"  to  his 
office  window. 

With  the  act,  came  a  thrill  of  strange  enjoyment.  It 
was  like  the  first  breath  of  a  new  and  invigorating  atmos 
phere.  That  little  sign  imparted  an  element  of  solidity  to 
his  plans  and  aims,  hitherto  lacking.  It  marked  an  epoch 
in  his  life.  Now,  first,  he  flung  himself,  with  all  his  strength 
and  energy,  into  the  great  struggle  of  mankind. 

To  this  pleasantly  excited  mood,  motion  was  still  desir 
able,  weariness  unfelt.  He  decided  to  pay  a  visit  to  his 
second,  and  yet  unknown,  uncle, — Godfrey  Bergan.  He 
quitted  the  village  with  the  last,  red  sunbeams. 


PART  SECOED. 

THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  WAY. 


THROUGH    A    MIST. 

OAKSTEAD,  the  estate  of  Godfrey  Bergan,  was  sepa 
rated  from  the  lands  of  the  Hall  by  the  small  river 
— or  "  creek,"  in  local  parlance — which  has  before 
been  mentioned.     The  pleasant  dwelling  of  the  owner  stood 
not  far  from  a  picturesque  bend  of  the  stream,  commanding 
a  view  of  its  tawny,  slumberous  current  for  a  considerable 
distance  up  and  down, — a  view  made  up  of  gentlest  cui'ves 
and  softest  coloring  only,  yet  with  enough  of  quiet  beauty 
to  arrest  Bergan's  feet,  for  some  moments,  on  the  oak- 
shadowed  lawn. 

The  river's  tide  stole  almost  imperceptibly  past,  mirror 
ing  in  its  still  bosom  the  sunset-painted  sky,  and  the  graver 
tinted  objects  of  earth,  with  equal  felicity, — like  a  gentle 
spirit,  in  whose  well-ordered  life  the  things  of  either  world 
find  their  appropriate  place  and  exquisite  harmony.  Just  at 
that  point  of  the  upper  stream  where  an  artist  would  have 
placed  it  for  the  best  pictorial  effect,  was  the  bridge  of  the 
main  road,  with  rough  abutments  half-buried  in  wild  foli 
age,  and  railings  overrun  with  vines  ;  and  at  a  remoter 
point  down  its  shining  course,  the  slenderer  span  of  a  nar 
row  footbridge,  with  a  single  rustic  railing,  was  also  seen, 
idealized  by  distance  into  an  aerial  passway  fit  for  fairy 


116  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   COEDS. 

feet.  In  the  earlier  days  of  Godfrey's  proprietorship,  while 
the  half-brothers  were  yet  on  friendly  terms,  this  latter 
structure  had  furnished  the  means  of  easy  and  frequent 
communication  between  the  two  households.  On  the  cessa 
tion  of  intercourse,  however,  Major  Bergan  had  threatened 
its  destruction,  and  had  even  begun  an  attack  upon  his  own 
abutment ;  but  his  operations  being  suddenly  suspended, 
and  no  convenient  opportunity  occurring  for  their  resump 
tion,  he  had  finally  left  the  work  of  demolition  to  be  fin 
ished  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  elements,  and  the  slow 
tooth  of  time.  Though  in  a  somewhat  ruinous  condition, 
and  but  insecurely  poised  on  the  damaged  abutment,  the 
bridge  was  still  passable,  with  due  caution  ;  and,  doubtless, 
it  served  for  the  nocturnal  visits  of  such  negroes  of  the 
two  estates  as  were  not  set  at  odds  by  the  bitterness  of 
their  masters'  feud. 

At  a  little  distance  below  the  footbridge,  the  river  made 
another  graceful  bend,  and  soon  disappeared  in  the  shadow 
of  the  pine  forest, — behind  and  above  the  dark,  swaying 
fringe  of  which,  the  posthumous  glory  of  the  sun  was  fading 
from  the  western  sky.  Against  this  flitting  splendor,  the 
turret-like  summits  of  the  chimneys  of  Bergan  Hall  were 
distinctly  visible.  A  little  saddened  by  the  sight,  as  forcing 
back  on  his  mind  thoughts  and  images  which  he  had  par 
tially  succeeded  in  flinging  off,  Bergan  turned  and  walked 
quickly  up  the  path  to  the  house.  Voices  met  him  as  he 
drew  near.  In  one  end  of  the  broad  piazza,  so  shut  in  by 
interlacing  vines  as  to  constitute  a  kind  of  leaf-tapestried 
parlor,  two  gentlemen  were  talking. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  identity  is  only  too  certain,"  said  the 
smooth,  sarcastic  voice  of  Doctor  Remy.  "  But  I  doubt  if 
the  habit  be  a  confirmed  one, — certainly,  the  physical  indi 
cations  are  lacking.  -At  any  rate,  as  I  said  before,  he  is  evi 
dently  making  an  effort  to  overcome  it." 

"  I  wish  that  no  such  effort  Avere  necessary," — began  a  dif 
ferent  voice  ;  but  with  the  instinct  of  delicacy,  Bergan  set 


THROUGH    A    MIST.  117 

his  foot  upon  the  lower  step  of  the  piazza  in  a  way  to  be  dis 
tinctly  heard,  and  would  have  done  the  same  had  he  sup 
posed  that  the  conversation  concerned  him,  which  he  did 
not.  The  voice  ceased  abruptly,  and  a  gentleman,  whom 
he  instantly  recognized  as  his  uncle,  advanced  to  meet  him. 
Though  he  had  enough  of  the  Bergan  cast  of  feature  to  iden 
tify  him  at  the  first,  casual  glance,  as  belonging  to  the  race, 
it  was  lost;  almost  as  soon  as  seen,  amid  traits  widely  dif 
fering  from  the  ancestral  pattern.  He  was  a  much  more 
genuine  outcome  of  American  soil  than  the  rest  of  Sir 
Harry's  descendants, — in  whom  a  childhood  fed  upon  old- 
world  family  traditions,  and  a  youth  spent  at  Oxford  or 
Cambridge,  had  availed  to  preserve  the  English  mould  from 
all  but  the  more  unavoidable  modifications.  The  race  had 
always  been  marked  by  a  greater  volume  of  muscle,  a  rud 
dier  complexion,  and  a  sturdier  texture  of  character,  than 
was  exactly  native  to  the  soil.  But,  in  Godfrey  Bergan, 
these  characteristics  were  lacking.  Though  tall  and  well- 
formed,  he  was  spare  in  figure  and  thin  in  face.  His  com 
plexion  had  the  true  American  sallowness  of  tint.  In  mat 
ters  of  bulk,  weight,  and  coloring, — all  the  purely  animal 
characteristics, — he  fell  far  below  the  standard  of  his  half- 
brother.  By  way  of  indemnity,  his  figure  had  more  lithe- 
ness  and  grace  ;  and  his  features  were  more  clearly  cut,  and 
endowed  with  a  keener  vivacity  of  expression, — apparently, 
they  were  informed  by  a  quicker  and  finer  intellect,  as  well 
as  a  gentler  spirit. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  thoughtful,  a  refined,  and  a  benev 
olent  countenance,  that  confronted  Bergan  ;  yet  not  with 
out  certain  firm  lines  about  the  mouth  to  indicate  that  its 
owner  could  be  decided,  if  he  chose,  and  perhaps  severe. 
While  it  invited  liking,  it  commanded  respect. 

It  was  with  real  pleasure  that  Bergan  made  his  self-in 
troduction  to  a  relative  with  so  many  apparent  claims  to 
affection  and  esteem.  Yet,  even  while  he  mentioned  his 
name  and  relationship,  and  held  out  his  hand,  as  to  a 


118  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

stranger, — albeit  a  friend, — he  was  beset  by  an  uneasy  con 
sciousness  that  he  had  met  Mr.  Bergan,  or  somebody  very 
like  him,  before.  But  where  ?  Sending  a  swift,  retrospec 
tive  glance  through  his  life,  he  could  find  no  clue  to  the 
perplexing  feeling  ;  and,  having  scant  time  for  investi 
gation,  he  quickly  dismissed  it  as  the  offspring  of  some 
indefinite  and  elusive  resemblance,  perhaps  to  one  of  the 
ancestral  portraits,  perhaps  to  a  half-forgotten  acquaint 
ance. 

It  was  the  more  easilyt  disposed  of,  that  its  place  was 
soon  filled  by  another  shadowy  vexation.  His  uncle's  re 
ception  was  both  courteous  and  kind  ;  yet  he  could  not  help 
feeling  intuitively  that  it  was  lacking  in  some  indefinable 
element  of  cordiality,  even  while  he  repudiated  the  intuition 
as  a  baseless  figment  of  his  own  imagination.  Certainly, 
there  was  no  tangible  coolness,  not  so  much  as  a  thin  film 
of  indifference,  upon  which  to  lay  a  plausible  finger-tip  ; 
nothing  that  did  not  slip  away  from  every  attempt  at  analy 
sis,  and  seem  to  resolve  itself  into  a  sickly  humor  of  his  own. 
At  worst,  he  told  himself,  there  was  only  some  less  definite 
expression  of  consanguineous  sympathy,  in  the  pressure  of 
his  uncle's  hand,  and  in  the  modulations  of  his  voice,  than 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  look  for  ;  and  this  was  a  mere 
matter  of  mood  and  temperament,  the  absence  of  which 
formed  no  good  ground  of  complaint,  whatever  warmth  and 
grace  might  have  been  contributed  by  its  presence.  No 
doubt,  it  would  come  in  good  time. 

Meanwhile  Doctor  Kemy,  sending  forth  his  keen  glance 
from  the  shadowy  end  of  the  piazza,  had  recognized  the  new 
comer  ;  and  he  now  presented  himself,  hat  in  hand. 

"  The  first  meeting  of  near  relatives,"  said  he,  with  his 
indescribable  mixture  of  seriousness  and  sarcasm, "  is  a  scene 
upon  which  a  third  person  is  bound  to  pronounce  his 
blessing,  and — turn  his  back !  Nay,  no  disclaimers ;  he 
is  equally  bound  not  to  listen  to  them.  Good  evening,  Mr. 
Bergan, — allow  me  to  remark  that  good  influences  may 


THROUGH    A   MIST.  119 

avail  much  in  the  matter  that  we  were  talking  of.  Good 
evening,  Mr.  Arling, — it  gives  me  pleasure  to  leave  you 
in  such  agreeable  quarters  ;  Oakstead  has  manifold  attrac 
tions,  as  you  are  in  the  way  to  discover." 

And  the  doctor  bowed,  and  descended  the  steps. 

Mr.  Bergan  turned  to  his  nephew.  "  I  hope  you  left  my 
sister  well,"  said  he. 

"  Quite  well.  I  have  a  letter  from  her  for  you.  I  am 
ashamed  that  it  has  not  been  delivered  before,  but — " 

Bergan  hesitated  ;  a  further  explanation  would  take  him 
upon  delicate  ground. 

"  Never  mind  the  sequence  of  the  'but,'"  said  his  uncle, 
smiling,  albeit  a  little  gravely  ; — "  I  am  aware  that  the  road 
from  Bergan  Hall  to  Oakstead  is  not  so  smooth  as  could  be 
wished.  I " — there  was  a  slight  hesitation,  as  if  a  colder 
phrase  had  been  sought,  and  not  found, — "  I  am  glad  that 
you  were  able  to  surmount  its  difficulties  so  soon.  A  letter 
from  Eleanor  !  "  he  went  on,  with  a  sudden  change  of  sub 
ject, — "  that  will  be  a  treat  indeed  !  I  take  shame  to  my 
self  that  our  correspondence  has  fallen  into  such  desuetude. 
But  what  one  ever  did  survive  the  lapse  of  forty-two  years, 
without  the  reviving  impulse  of  an  occasional  meeting  ?  I 
hardly  dare  venture  a  question  about  my  sister's  family, 
lest  1  make  some  terrific  blunder.  I  am  not  even  sure  about 
the  present  number  of  her  children." 

"  There  are  six  of  us  left." 

"  '  Left '  implies  '  taken,'  "  said  Mr.  Bergan,  with  a  sigh. 

"  We  have  lost  two  of  our  number." 

"  So  have  we,"  replied  Mr.  Bergan.  "  But  we  have  not 
six  left — we  have  only  one.  However,  she  is  a  host  in  her 
self, — at  least,  we  think  so," — he  added,  with  a  smile  at  his 
own  enthusiasm.  "  But,  will  you  come  in  and  see  your 
aunt  and  cousin  ?  " 

He  led  the  way  to  a  small  room,  pleasantly  furnished  as 
a  library  ;  and  Bergan  followed  him,  though  not  without  a 
vague  sense  of  a  lurking  reluctance  and  lukewarmness  in 


120  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COKDS. 

the  invitation, — which  he  sternly  smothered,  nevertheless, 
as  unworthy  of  himself  and  unjust  to  his  uncle. 

Stepping  to  an  open  French  window,  Mr.  Bergan 
slightly  raised  his  voice  and  called, — 

"  Carice ! " 

"Yes,  father!"  was  the  instant  answer,  in  a  voice  of 
peculiar  richness  and  melody;  and  the  next  moment  a 
young  girl  stood  in  the  window,  with  a  light  shawl  wrapped 
round  her  slender  figure,  and  her  hands  filled  with  autumn 
flowers,  just  gathered.  The  light  was  too  dim  to  show  her 
features  clearly ;  but  a  certain  indefinable  freshness  and 
sweetness  seemed  to  enter  the  room  with  her  and  diffuse 
itself  through  the  atmosphere  not  less  perceptibly  than  the 
scent  of  the  flowers.  At  sight  of  a  stranger,  imperfectly 
seen  in  the  twilight  obscurity  of  the  room,  she  stopped 
abruptly. 

"  It  is  your  cousin,  Bergan  Arling,  the  son  of  my  sister 
Eleanor,"  briefly  explained  her  father. 

There  was  a  little  start  of  surprise  and  of  pleasure; 
then  Carice  dropped  her  flowers  on  the  nearest  table,  and 
gave  Bergan  two  cordial  hands.  Not  only  was  there  a 
charming  grace  in  the  unstudied  action,  but  also  the  pleas 
ant  heart-warmth,  the  frank  recognition  of  kinship  and  its 
appropriate  sympathies,  which  Bergan  had  so  unaccountably 
missed  from  his  uncle's  manner,  even  while  trying  to  per 
suade  himself,  either  that  it  was  there,  or  that  its  absence 
was  no  matter  of  sui'prise. 

"  Have  I  really  a  cousin,  then  ! "  said  she,  brightly.  "  I 
never  believed  it  till  now.  That  story  of  cousins  at  the 
West  always  sounded  like  a  pleasant  fiction  to  me, — I  am 
glad  to  know  that  it  is  founded  on  fact." 

"  On  six  facts,"  said  Bergan,  smiling.  "  I  am  the  fortu 
nate  representative  of  five  other  claimants  to  your  cousinly 
regard." 

Carice  laughingly  shook  her  head.  "  I  believe  what  I 
see,"  said  she, — "  or  rather  what  I  should  see,  if  it  were  not 


THROUGH    A   MIST.  121 

so  dim  here.  By  and  bye, — after  I  have  ordered  lights, — I 
may  be  able  to  reason  from  the  seen  to  the  unseen."  And 
she  glided  from  the  room,  which  seemed  to  grow  suddenly 
dark  and  chill  behind  her. 

Very  shortly  she  returned,  preceded  by  a  servant  bear 
ing  lights,  and  accompanied  by  her  mother.  Looking 
toward  Bergan  with  a  smile,  she  gave  a  slight  start ;  the 
coming  words  were  arrested  on  her  parted  lips;  the  color 
mounted  to  her  brow;  across  her  face  went  a  swift  ripple 
of  disappointment  and  pain.  Quickly  recovering  herself, 
she  presented  him  to  her  mother;  but  the  bright  cordiality, 
the  warm  heart-glow,  of  her  earlier  manner,  had  faded, 
and  came  no  more.  It  was  as  if  a  gray  screen  had  suddenly 
been  drawn  before  a  cheery  household  fire. 

Happily  for  Bergan,  his  aunt  claimed  his  attention 
before  he  had  time  to  feel  the  full  dreariness  of  the  change. 
She  was  a  woman  ot  rare  tact,  and  much  kindliness  of  heart, 
despite  a  somewhat  stately  manner,  and  a  considerable 
degree  of  aristocratic  chill  for  people  not  exactly  in  her 
"set."  She  gave  Bergan  a  warm  welcome, — almost  a 
motherly  one ;  there  was  something  about  him  that  brought 
a  softening  remembrance  of  the  two  sons  that  slept  in  the 
family  burial  ground,  and  quietly  opened  the  way  for  him 
into  her  heart.  Finding  his  entertainment  left  very  much 
in  her  hands,  she  cared  for  it  kindly ;  though  not  without 
a  secret  wonder  at  the  inexplicable  indifference  of  her  hus 
band  and  daughter.  But  she  did  her  best  to  make  amends 
for  it  by  her  own  friendliness,  and  in  part,  succeeded. 

Meanwhile,  Bergan  was  beset  by  another  tantalizing 
resemblance.  Never,  he  thought,  had  he  seen  anything 
quite  so  lovely  as  his  cousin  Carice, — with  her  soft,  brown 
hair,  her  clear  rose-complexion,  her  large,  limpid,  blue  eyes, 
the  lily-like  droop  of  her  exquisitely  formed  head,  the  inex 
haustible  grace  of  her  attitudes  and  movements, — but  he  had 
certainly  seen  somebody  a  little  like  her.  So  strong,  yet 
so  puzzling  was  this  conviction,  and  so  frequent  the  glances 
6 


122  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

consequently  sent  in  her  direction,  that  he  felt  a  word  of 
explanation  might  not  be  amiss. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he,  "  if  I  seem  to  be  looking  at  you 
almost  constantly ;  but  there  is  something  about  you  curi 
ously  familiar,  though  it  is  impossible  that  we  should  have 
met  before.  I  suppose  I  must  have  seen  somebody  that 
resembled  you ;  but  I  cannot  tell  when  or  where." 

Carice  looked  down,  and  colored  slightly.  Her  father 
came  to  her  relief. 

"  There  is  often  no  accounting  for  resemblances,"  said 
he.  "  When  there  is  any  tie  of  blood,  however  remote, 
we  understand  them,  of  course ;  but  when  the  face  of  an 
utter  stranger  startles  me  in  the  street  with  the  very  smile 
of  my  sister  Eleanor,  or  the  grave  look  of  my  dead  father, 
what  am  I  to  think  ?  " 

"  One  would  like  to  know,"  remarked  Bergan,  "  if  there 
is  a  mental  and  moral  likeness,  to  match  the  physical  one. 
When  I  fix  the  resemblance  that  eludes  me  so  persistently 
in  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  Carice,  "  I  hope  it  will  help 
me  to  answer  the  question." 

"I  doubt  if  it  does,"  replied  Carice,  quietly,  yet  not 
without  a  certain  something  in  her  tone  that  sounded 
almost  like  sarcasm.  He  looked  at  her  in  considerable  sur 
prise,  but  her  eyes  were  turned  away,  and  she  said  no 
more. 

Feeling  as  if  he  were  walking  in  a  mist,  which  every 
where  eluded  his  grasp,  while  it  blinded  his  eyes,  and 
chilled  his  heart,  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  his  aunt,  kindly,  as  she  gave  him 
her  hand,  "  to-morrow  will  be  Sunday,  will  it  not  ?  Pray 
let  us  find  you  in  our  pew  at  church  in  the  morning ;  and 
come  home  with  us  to  an  early  dinner,  before  the  evening 
service." 

Bergan  hesitated.  He  had  no  reasonable  excuse;  yet 
his  uncle  had  not  seconded  the  invitation.  As  if  suddenly 
cognizant  of  the  omission,  Mr.  Bergan  now  spoke. 


THROUGH    A    MIST.  123 

"  Come,  by  all  means,"  said  he,  with  more  kindness 
tli an  he  had  yet  shown, — for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
give  a  half-hearted  invitation  to  his  sister's  son, — "  I  have 
still  a  great  deal  to  ask  about  your  mother." 

"  And  I,"  said  his  aunt,  laughing,  "  have  still  a  great 
cL-al  to  ask  about  yourself.  Good  night." 

They  stood  on  the  piazza  watching  him,  until  he  was 
out  of  sight.  Then  Carice  turned  to  her  father. 

"Did  he  say  anything  about — yesterday?"  she  asked, 
gravely. 

"  Not  a  word.  I  should  have  liked  him  better  if  he  had 
offered  some  explanation." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  recognize  us,"  suggested  Carice. 

"  How  could  he  help  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  know, — only — you  were  angry  and  I  was 
frightened;  probably  our  faces  did  not  wear  their  natural 
expression.  Besides,  he  was  doubtless  a  little  bewildered 
by  his  fall,  and — " 

"  What  or  whom  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  here  broke 
in  the  amazed  Mrs.  Bergan. 

"  About  my  nephew,  the  mad  cavalier  who  so  nearly 
came  into  collision  with  Carice  yesterday,"  replied  her  hus 
band. 

Mrs.  Bergan  threw  up  her  hands.  "And  you  let  me 
invite  him  to  dinner ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
injury. 

"How  could  I  help  it,  my  dear?  Besides,  he  is  my 
sister's  son." 

Meanwhile,  Bergan  found  his  way  back  to  the  village 
through  the  darkness,  wondering  what  had  become  of  the 
lightness  of  heart  and  cheerfulness  of  hope  with  which  he 
had  set  out — he  looked  at  his  watch — only  two  hours 
before ! 


II. 

STRENGTHENED    OUT    OF   ZION. 

ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH,  Berganton,  was  a  small,  plain 
structure  of  brick  ajid  stone,  rather  prettily  situated 
on  the  bank  of  the  aforesaid  creek,  which  flowed 
through  the  midst  of  the  town.  Its  sole  claim  to  exterior 
beauty  must  have  rested  on  the  thick  vines  which  covered 
its  walls,  framed  its  windows,  and  climbed  to  the  roof  of 
its  low,  square  tower ;  doing  their  best  to  atone  for  its 
many  architectural  deficiencies,  its  failure  to  present  to 
the  eye  a  certain  material  "  beauty  of  holiness,"  in  har 
mony  with  the  spiritual  loveliness  of  the  unseen  temple,  of 
which  it  was  the  faint  type. 

Toward  this  church,  on  the  morning  after  his  visit  to 
Oakstead,  Bergan  directed  his  steps.  Meeting  his  uncle  in 
the  vestibule,  he  was  soon  seated  in  the  square  family  pew, 
and  had  a  few  moments  to  look  about  him,  before  service. 

In  its  small  way,  the  church  was  almost  as  much  a  me 
morial  of  the  House  of  Bergan  as  the  old  Hall  itself.  Sir 
Harry  had  been  a  fair  sample  of  the  average  English 
Churchman  of  his  day,  with  whom  a  certain  amount  of 
religious  observance  was  deemed  necessary  and  becoming, 
both  by  way  of  seemly  garmenting  for  one's  self,  and  good 
example  for  one's  neighbors.  If  it  did  not  reach  very  deep 
into  the  heart,  it  at  least  imparted  a  certain  completeness 
and  dignity  to  the  outward  life. 

Moreover,  family  tradition  was  strongly  in  religion's 
favor.  There  had  always  been  relations  of  a  highly 
friendly  and  decorous  sort  between  the  house  and  the 
church ;  and  to  have  turned  his  back  disrespectfully 


STRENGTHENED    OUT    OF    ZION.  125 

upon  the  one,  would  have  been  to  show  himself  a  degener 
ate  scion  of  the  other.  As  a  natural  consequence,  Sir 
Harry  did  not  feel  that  he  had  done  his  whole  duty  to 
himself,  or  his  posterity,  until  he  had  provided  a  fitting 
stage  for  the  necessary  family  ceremonials  of  christening, 
marriage,  and  burial ;  as  well  as  an  appropriate  spot  for 
his  own  enjoyment  of  a  respectable  Sunday  doze,  under 
the  soothing  influence  of  an  orthodox  sermon,  after  having 
duly  taken  his  share  in  the  responses  of  the  morning  ser 
vice.  If  this  school  of  Churchmen  had  its  faults,  it  also 
had  its  virtues.  If  its  standard  of  religion  was  a  low  one, 
with  a  strong  leaning  toward  human  pride  and  selfish  in 
dulgence  ;  it  was  better  than  the  open  irreverence  and 
infidelity,  the  unblushing  disregard  of  religious  restraints 
and  sanctions,  of  later  generations. 

Under  Sir  Harry's  auspices,  therefore,  the  foundations 
of  St.  Paul's  were  laid,  and  its  walls  arose,  as  a  kind  of 
necessary  adjunct  to  Bcrgan  Hall.  And  his  successors, 
with  rare  exceptions,  had  felt  it  a  duty  to  add  to  its 
interior  attractions,  as  well  as  to  make  it  a  continuous 
family  record,  by  memorial  windows  of  stained  glass,  mu 
ral  tablets  of  bronze  or  marble,  and  thank-offerings  of  font, 
communion  plate,  and  other  appliances  and  adornments. 
Some  of  these,  no  doubt,  were  merely  self-laudatory,  the 
fitful  outgrowth  of  family  pride ;  others  might  have  sprung 
from  a  sense  of  what  was  beautiful  and  fitting, — which  was 
a  very  good  thing,  as  far  as  it  went,  though  it  went  not 
much  below  the  surface  ;  but  a  few  there  were,  doubtless, 
which  had  been  consecrated  to  their  use  by  heartfelt  tears 
of  sorrow,  of  penitence,  or  of  gratitude.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  they  all  helped  (at  least,  in  human  eyes)  to  give  the 
interior  of  St.  Paul's  a  certain  completeness,  and  even  a 
degree  of  beauty  and  harmony. 

Still,  both  in  its  size  and  its  decorations,  the  church  was 
far  inferior  to  the  Hall.  There  was  a  vast  disproportion, 
both  in  amount  and  quality,  between  the  space  and  the 


12(3  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

furniture  set  apart  for  the  service  and  pleasure  of  a  single 
household,  and  that  consecrated  to  the  worship  of  God, 
and  the  spiritual  nurture  of  His  people.  But,  in  the  matter 
of  preservation,  as  well  as  in  answering  a  definite  end,  the 
advantage  was  greatly  on  the  side  of  the  church  and  its 
appointments.  Wherever  the  Bergan  hands  had  grown 
slack,  or  had  been  withdraAvn,  in  that  work,  others  had 
taken  it  up,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  and  carried  it  forward 
to  completion,  or  kept  it  from  lapsing  back  into  chaos. 

And  so,  Bergan — remembering  how  surely  the  merely 
secular  memorials  of  Sir  Harry  and  his  successors  had  been 
overtaken  by  the  slow  feet  of  decay,  while  these  others 
had  been  saved  by  their  connection  with  an  institution 
having  a  deeper  and  broader  principle  of  life — was  led  into 
a  natural  enough,  though  for  him  a  most  unusual,  train  of 
thought.  He  asked  himself  if  Sir  Harry  would  not  have 
done  better,  even  for  his  own  selfish  end,  to  have  given  the 
larger  share  (or,  at  least,  an  equal  one)  of  his  time,  care, 
and  money,  to  the  edifice  which  had  the  surest  hold  upon 
permanency,  and  was  most  likely  to  be  sacredly  kept  for 
its  original  purpose.  In  our  country,  more  than  almost 
anywhere  else,  people  build  houses  for  other  people  to 
dwell  in,  and  Time  delights  to  blot  family  names  from  his 
roll,  at  least  on  the  page  where  they  were  first  written. 
All  family  mansions,  however  fair  and  proud,  are  surely 
destined  to  fall  into  stranger  hands,  or  to  be  given  over  to 
the  Vandal  occupation  of  decay.  All  families,  of  however 
lofty  position,  are  certain  to  sojourn,  at  times,  in  the  valley 
of  humiliation,  if  they  do  not  lose  themselves  in  the  deeper 
valley  of  extinction.  Would  it  not  have  been  better,  then, 
to  have  foregone  somewhat  of  the  frail  and  faithless  mag 
nificence  of  Bergan  Hall,  and  linked  the  dear  family  name 
and  memory  more  closely  with  the  indestructible  institu 
tion  which  belongs  to  the  ages  ? 

And,  as  he  thus  questioned,  the  narrow  walls,  the  low 
roof,  and  the  insignificant  adornments  of  the  little  church 


STRENGTHENED   OUT   OF   ZION.  127 

seemed  slowly  to  widen  and  lift  themselves  to  the  grand 
proportions  of  a  vast,  pillared  temple ;  and  the  small  chan 
cel  window — doing  so  little,  nor  doing  that  little  well,  to 
keep  alive  the  fair  memory  of  "Elizabeth,  wrife  of  Sir 
Harry" — became  a  great  glory  of  pictured  saints  and 
angels,  through  whose  diaphanous  bodies  the  rainbow- 
light  fell  softly  among  a  crowd  of  kneeling  worshippers ; 
— unto  whom  the  sculptured  mural  tablets,  the  jewel-tinted 
glass,  the  stately  walls,  the  soaring  arch,  told  over  and 
over  again  the  lovely  story,  and  held  up  to  view  the  noble 
example,  of  a  race  whose  labor  and  delight  it  had  been  to 
build  strong  and  beautiful  the  walls  of  Zion ;  arid  which, 
in  so  doing,  had  raised  up  to  itself  the  most  enduring,  as 
well  as  the  most  precious  of  earthly  monuments.  How 
much  better  this  than  the  crumbling  splendors  of  Bergan 
Hall,  and  the  fading  glory  of  an  almost  extinct  name  ! 

"  The  Lord  is  in  His  holy  temple,"  was  here  breathed 
through  Bergan's  visioned  fane,  in  appropriately  awed  and 
solemn  tones.  Nevertheless,  they  broke  the  slender  thread 
of  its  being.  As  Bergan  rose  to  his  feet,  with  the  rest  of 
the  congregation,  its  majestic  vista,  its  pictured  windows, 
and  all  its  rich  array,  vanished  like  the  filmy  imagery  of  a 
dream,  at  the  moment  of  awakening.  But  it  was  not 
without  a  keen  sense  of  the  contrast  that  he  brought  his 
mind  back  to  the  real  St.  Paul's,  and  the  service  going  on 
under  its  lowlier  roof. 

Nothing  remained  but  the  harmonious  voice,  which 
had  at  once  perfected  and  broken  the  spell.  Glancing 
toward  the  chancel,  Bergan  saw  a  clergyman,  with  a  face 
that  would  have  been  simply  benignant,  but  for  the  vivid 
illumination  of  a  pair  of  deep-set,  dark-blue  eyes, — a  light 
never  seen  save  where  a  great  heart  sends  its  warm  glow 
through  all  the  chambers  of  a  grand  intellect. 

There  is  something  marvellous  in  the  inexhaustible 
adaptation  of  the  Church  service  to  the  wants  of  the  soul. 
At  the  same  time  that  it  is  a  miracle  of  fitness  for  the  ends 


128  HOLDEX    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

of  public  worship,  it  has  its  adequate  word  for  every  secret, 
individual  need.  Though  Bergan  bad  heard  it  hundreds 
of  times  before,  and  always  with  a  hearty  admiration  of 
its  beauty  and  comprehensiveness,  never  had  its  rhythmic 
sentences  fallen  upon  his  heart  with  such  gracious  and 
grateful  effect.  Doubtless,  this  was  owing,  in  great 
measure,  to  the  subdued  frame  of  mind  induced  by  the 
events  of  the  last  week;  but  it  was  also  due,  in  some 
degree,  to  the  perfection  with  which  the  service  was 
rendered.  It  was  neither  hurried  nor  drawled,  neither 
grumbled  nor  whined,  neither  a  rasping  see-saw  nor  a  dull 
monotone.  It  was  not  overlaid  with  the  arts  of  elocution ; 
nor  was  it  robbed  of  all  life  and  warmth  by  the  formal 
emphasis  and  intonation  of  the  merely  correct  reader. 
But,  in  Mr.  Islay's  mouth,  it  became  the  living  voice  of 
living  hearts.  The  dear  old  words,  without  losing  one 
whit  of  the  accumulated  power,  and  the  sacred  associa 
tions,  of  long  years  of  reverent  use,  came  as  freshly  and  as 
fei'vently  from  the  speaker's  lips,  as  if  they  were  the  heart- 
warm  coinage  of  the  moment. 

As  an  inevitable  consequence,  Bergan's  responses  were 
uttered  with  answering  fervor.  And  how  perfectly  they 
met  his  wants !  How  wonderfully  they  expressed  his  sense 
of  weakness  and  failure,  his  depression  and  humiliation, 
his  new-born  self-distrust,  his  earnest  desire  and  determi 
nation  to  be  stronger  against  future  temptations.  In  some 
sentences,  there  was  a  depth  of  meaning  and  of  fitness, 
that  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  all  these  years  for  this 
moment  of  complete  interpretation.  Continually  Avas  he 
startled  by  subtile  references  to  his  peculiar  circumstances, 
by  the  calm  precision  with  which  his  sores  were  probed, 
and  the  tender  skill  which  applied  to  them  healing  balm. 

Especially  was  he  struck  by  the  Collect  for  the  day, — 
so  cleai'ly  did  it  express  thoughts  and  feelings  too  vague 
in  his  own  mind  to  have  shaped  themselves  into  words  : — 

"  O  Lord,  we  beseech  Thee,  absolve  Thy  people  from 


STRENGTHENED   OUT   OF    ZION.  129 

their  offences ;  that  through  Thy  bountiful  goodness,  they 
may  all  be  delivered  from  the  bands  of  those  sins  which  by 
their  frailty  they  have  committed." 

Never  before  could  he  have  so  clearly  understood  what 
was  meant  by  the  "bands"  of  sins,  committed,  not  of 
deliberate  intent,  but  through  frailty.  How  painfully  he 
felt  the  pressure  of  those  bands!  how  certainly  they  would 
cramp  his  efforts  and  hinder  his  progress  !  And  how  sin 
gularly  distinct  they  had  become  to  his  sight,  both  in  their 
nature  and  their  effects,  by  means  of  that  old,  oft-repeated, 
yet  ever  new,  Collect ! 

With  a  half-unconscious  attempt  at  divination,  Bergan 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  his  Prayer  Book,  during  the 
short  pause  before  the  psalm,  wondering  what  other  mystic 
meanings  were  waiting  under  familiar  words,  for  his  future 
needs.  It  was  not  without  a  little  chill  at  his  heart  that 
his  eye  caught  the  opening  sentences  of  the  burial  anthem. 

There  could  be  no  question  about  that.  Whatever  else 
might  or  might  not  be  waiting  for  him,  that  was  cei'tain, 
some  day,  to  be  said  over  his  dead  body,  and  vainly  to  try 
to  find  entrance  into  his  deaf  ears.  But  when  ?  At  the 
end  of  a  long  life;  in  the  midst  of  his  days;  or  ere  his 
work  was  scarce  begun  ? 

His  work.  What  was  it  ?  To  walk  in  a  vain  shadow  ? 
To  disquiet  himself  in  vain  ?  To  heap  up  riches  for  an 
unknown  gatherer  ?  To  write  his  name  high  on  the  temple 
of  Fame?  To  become  a  philanthropist,  or  a  reformer? 
No  ;  but  to  "  apply  his  heart  unto  wisdom." 

It  was  both  a  deep  and  a  hard  saying.  Bergan  felt 
that  he  could  not  fathom  it,  even  while  he  saw  how  ruth 
lessly  it  struck  at  the  roots  of  human  pride,  and  lopped 
the  boughs  of  personal  ambition. 

Meanwhile,  the  psalm  had  been  sung,  and  with  a  rust 
ling  of  leaves  and  garments,  the  congregation  had  settled 
themselves  into  their  seats.  Through  the  succeeding  hush, 
Mr.  Islay  quietly  sent  the  words  of  his  text :  "  Whatsoever 
6* 


130  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might,  for  there  is 
no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom,  in  the 
grave  whither  thou  goest." 

It  was  the  word  in  season  ! 

Bergan  left  the  church  that  day,  not  only  with  a  deeper 
sense  of  his  own  mortality,  and  consequent  weakness,  than 
ever  before ;  but  also  with  a  modified  view  of  life's  work 
and  duty.  In  one  sense,  it  was  a  narrower  view, — with 
that  narrowness  which  feels  the  need  of  some  true,  fixed 
centre,  from  which  to  work  outward,  with  any  degree  of 
safety  and  system,  and,  consequently,  of  success.  He 
began  to  see  that  he  who  would  influence  others  for  good, 
and  through  them  the  world,  must  first  be  certain  of  the 
point  where  his  influence  begins,  and  that  toward  which  it 
tends. 

Not  that  Bergan  understood,  or  would  ever  be  likely  to 
understand,  the  full  measure  and  real  character  of  the 
change  that  had  been  wrought  in  him  under  that  lowly 
chui-ch-roof.  Up  to  this  point,  his  life  had  been  from 
without,  inward  ;  henceforth,  it  was  to  be  from  within  out 
ward.  The  inner  life  of  the  soul  was  really  begun  in  him, 
— feebly,  half-unconsciously,  it  is  true, — yet  possessing  a 
hidden  power  of  assimilation  and  growth,  that  would  soon 
bend  all  things  to  itself.  Storm  and  sunshine,  darkness 
and  light,  success  and  failure,  would  alike  minister  to  its 
wants,  and  help  it  to  grow  fair  and  strong.  Things  most 
inimical  to  it,  at  first  sight,  would  but  give  it  tougher 
fibre  and  lovelier  grain ;  in  the  drought,  it  would  but  send 
its  roots  down  deeper  in  pursuit  of  hidden  wells ;  under 
the  pruning-knife,  it  would  but  burst  forth  into  fairer 
blossoms  and  richer  fruit. 

Yet  it  was  no  sudden  change,  for  all  his  life  had  been  a 
preparation  for  it.  Oftenest  the  kingdom  of  God  cometh 
without  observation.  The  stones  of  the  spiritual  temple 
may  be  fashioned  amid  clamor  and  discord,  but  they  are 
laid  in  their  places  with  a  silence  that  is  full  of  meaning. 


nr. 

SEEING,  BUT   UNDERSTANDING  NOT. 

THE  service  being  ended,  Bergan  naturally  turned  to 
his  kinsfolk  for  an  ampler  and  friendlier  greeting 
than  had  been  possible  at  their  hurried  meeting  in 
the  crowded  vestibule.  Especially — with  a  grateful  re 
membrance  of  her  yesterday's  cordiality — did  he  look  to  his 
aunt  for  a  word  of  familiar  kindness,  that  should  make  him 
feel  less  alone,  less  of  a  stranger,  amid  the  friendly  chorus 
of  salutations  and  leave-takings  coming  to  his  ears  from  the 
departing  congregation.  But,  to  his  surprise  and  pain,  the 
same  indefinable  chill  which  had  made  him  so  vaguely  un 
comfortable  with  her  husband  and  daughter,  had  now  taken 
possession  of  her  also,  and  woven  a  thin  film  of  ice  over  the 
manner  that  yesterday  was  so  kind. 

The  change  was  so  unaccountable  that  he  could  not  be 
lieve  in  it.  He  told  himself  that  the  real  thing  at  fault  was 
his  own  sickly  imagination,  that  he  was  morbidly  sensitive, 
as  well  as  foolishly  exacting.  He  convinced  his  under 
standing,  but  could  not  silence  his  heart.  That  Cassandra 
of  the  depths  continually  smote  his  unwilling  ear  with  her 
lugubrious  voice,  calling  upon  him  to  observe  how  strangely 
Mrs.  Bergan  had  been  transformed  overnight,  from  the  in 
terested,  cordial,  even  affectionate  aunt,  into  the  polite  and 
practised  woman  of  the  world,  doing  merely  what  courtesy 
required  for  the  entertainment  of  the  guest  that  circum 
stances  had  flung  upon  her  hands. 

In  this  state  of  affairs,  Bergan  would  gladly  have  ex 
changed  the  dinner  at  Oakstcad  for  a  quiet  afternoon  in  his 
room  and  a  sober  talk  with  his  thoughts.  But  the  invita- 


132  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

tion  being  already  accepted,  he  must  needs  abide  by  the 
event.  Accordingly,  he  took  the  vacant  seat  in  his  uncle's 
carriage,  and  was  soon  set  down  at  the  cottage  steps. 

Before  dinner,  the  two  gentlemen  were  left  to  a  quiet 
chat  by  themselves  on  the  cool,  shady  piazza.  Bergan  em 
braced  this  opportunity  to  explain,  more  fully  than  he  had 
yet  done,  his  motives  and  aims.  He  told  his  uncle, — a  little 
proudly,  it  might  be,  for  he  wished  it  to  be  understood  that 
he  had  come  hither  with  a  self-respecting  purpose  of  inde 
pendence,  and  not  with  any  idea  of  leaning  upon  his  friends, 
— he  told  his  uncle  that  his  choice  of  Berganton  as  the 
starting-point  of  his  professional  career,  was  due  to  the  in 
fluence  of  his  mother.  Her  childhood's  home,  and  its  vi 
cinity,  had  always  kept  a  tenacious  hold  on  her  affections, 
despite  the  fact  that  more  than  two-thirds  of  her  woman 
hood  had  been  spent  elsewhere,  and  all  the  deeper  joys  and 
sorrows  of  her  life  had  blossomed  and  fruited  in  different 
soil.  When,  therefore,  it  became  necessary  for  one  of  her 
sons  to  go  out  into  the  world,  in  search  of  a  better  field  of 
labor  than  was  afforded  in  his  native  village,  her  thoughts 
naturally  turned  to  the  spot  so  haloed  in  her  memory,  and 
where  her  ancestry  had  sent  such  deep,  old  roots  into  the 
soil,  as  to  create  a  kind  of  kinship  for  evermore  between 
their  descendants  and  the  locality.  It  would  be  a  pleasant 
thing  for  Bergan,  she  thought,  to  make  a  home  and  a  name 
for  himself  in  a  place  where  he  possessed  so  strong  a  claim 
to  residence;  it  would  be  equally  pleasant  for  the  old  town 
to  recognize  the  familiar  mould  of  features  and  character 
in  its  streets  ;  and  it  would  be  pleasantest  of  all  for  herself 
to  know  that  her  son  was  with  her  kinsfolk,  amid  well- 
known  scenes,  rather  than  among  strangers,  on  ground 
where  her  thoughts  could  find  no  foothold.  Some  day,  she 
hoped  to  visit  him  there,  and  feed  her  mother's  pride  upon 
his  success,  at  the  same  time'that  she  renewed  her  girlhood 
amid  old  associations. 

Bergan  then  touched  lightly  upon  his  disappointment  in 


SEEING,  BUT    UNDERSTANDING    NOT.  133 

the  dull  old  town — finding  it  so  much  duller  and  older,  even 
to  decrepitude,  than  he  had  expected,  and  consequently, 
so  little  eligible  to  his  purpose.  And  here,  if  he  had  been 
met  by  a  more  interested  glance,  and  a  fuller  sympathy,  he 
would  have  gone  on  to  speak  of  the  disgraceful  scene  into 
which  he  had  been  betrayed  by  his  uncle — the  Major — and 
the  obligation  under  which  he  felt  himself  placed  thereby  to 
remain  in  Berganton,  at  least  long  enough  to  efface  any  un 
favorable  impression  which  it  might  have  caused.  But, 
though  his  uncle  Godfrey  heard  him  patiently  and  cour 
teously  enough,  there  was  so  little  of  the  hearty  interest  of 
kinship  in  his  manner,  that  Bcrgan  could  not  bring  himself 
to  open  the  subject.  Not  only  was  it  unpleasant  in  itself, 
but  it  touched  at  many  points  on  deep  things  of  his  nature, 
•which  instinctively  refused  to  pour  themselves  into  any  but 
a  friendly,  sympathetic  ear. 

If  he  had  knoAvn  whence  came  the  cloud  between  his 
relatives  and  himself,  he  would  have  spoken,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  at  whatever  cost  of  feeling.  But  this  explanation 
of  the  matter  suggested  itself  to  him,  only  to  be  inevitably 
rejected.  Although  it  might  serve  to  account  for  the  cool 
ness  that  had  characterized  his  uncle's  manner  from  the 
first,  it  seemed  to  throw  no  light  whatever  upon  the 
difficult  problem  of  the  sudden  change  from  cordiality 
to  reserve,  in  Mrs.  Bergan  and  Carice.  A  much  more 
natural  supposition  appeared  to  be,  that  something  in 
his  own  manner  or  conversation  had  unfortunately  awak 
ened  prejudice  or  created  dislike.  For  that,  there  was 
no  remedy  save  in  time.  He  could  hope  that,  when 
his  kinsfolk  should  come  to  know  him  better,  they 
might  be  fain  to  reverse  their  hasty  judgment,  and 
account  him  worthy  of  a  place  in  their  liking.  But, 
until  that  time  should  arrive, — though  he  would  do 
anything  in  reason  to  help  it  on, — there  was  nothing  to  en 
courage  or  to  warrant  any  overflow  of  pei'sonal  confidences. 

It  was  scarcely  possible,  under  the  circumstances,  that 


134-  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

Bergan  should  have  reached  a  different  conclusion.  Of  his 
meeting  with  Mr.  Bergan  and  Carice,  during  his  frenzy  of 
rage  and  intoxication,  he  retained  but  the  vaguest  recollec 
tion  ;  and  he  had  totally  failed  to  recognize  either  his  uncle 
or  cousin  as  his  co-actors  in  the  dim  and  misty  adven 
ture.  Nor  was  this  the  only  missing  link  in  the  chain  of 
events.  Dr.  Remy's  casual  talk,  in  the  visit  immediately 
preceding  his  own,  which  had  first  made  Mr.  Bergan  ac 
quainted  with  the  fact  of  his  nephew's  presence  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  gradually  led  to  his  identification  with 
the  intoxicated  cavalier  of  whom,  he  entertained  so  disa 
greeable  an  impression  ;  Carice's  subsequent  recognition  of 
him,  as  soon  as  his  features  were  distinctly  revealed  to  her; 
and  his  aunt's  later  discovery  of  the  same  lamentable  iden 
tity  ; — all  these  facts  were  necessary  to  a  clear  understand 
ing  of  the  situation,  and  its  requirements.  Without  them, 
no  wonder  that  Bergan  was  led  astray  both  in  his  conclu 
sions  and  his  acts  ;  the  former  being  the  inevitable  result  of 
the  false  logic  of  the  few  facts  of  which  he  knew,  and  the  lat 
ter  going  to  help  the  equally  false  logic  of  the  facts  known 
to  others,  of  which  he  knew  nothing. 

So,  after  Mr.  Bergan  had  politely  assented  to  his  observa 
tions  upon  the  dulness  of  Berganton,  and  somewhat  point 
edly  remarked  that  perseverance  and  energy,  when  con 
joined  with  upright  habits,  were  pretty  sure  to  command  a 
reasonable  measure  of  success  anywhere,  the  conversation 
turned  aside  into  other  channels.  The  opportunity  for  a 
frank  explanation — which  could  alone  have  placed  him  upon 
his  proper  footing  with  his  new-found  relatives — was  lost. 
It  would  not  return  until  it  was  too  late  to  be  of  any  con 
siderable  service. 

Nevertheless,  at  the  dinner-table,  the  moral  atmosphere 
cleared  a  little.  Mr.  Bergan  could  not,  in  justice  to  him 
self,  allow  any  guest  at  his  board — much  less  his  sister's 
son — to  shiver  long  in  an  impalpable  mist  of  coolness  and 
reserve.  His  wife  gladly  seconded  his  efforts  toward  geni- 


SEEING,  BUT   UNDERSTANDING    NOT.  135 

ality  and  cheerfulness.  Under  this  opportune  sunshine, 
Bcrgan's  manner  soon  lost  its  reflected  touch  of  constraint, 
and  sparkled  with  pleasant  humor,  or  was  warmed  through 
and  through  with  a  rich  glow  of  enthusiasm.  Despite  their 
prejudices,  his  relatives  could  not  but  feel  its  potent  charm. 
Under  protest,  as  it  were,  they  yielded  him  a  portion  of 
their  liking,  even  while  they  refused  him  their  confidence. 
"  What  a  pity,"  they  thought,  "  that  he  is  so  dissipated, 
when  he  can  be  so  captivating  !  What  a  fine  character 
his  might  be,  but  for  its  one  miserable,  ruinous  flaw  !  " 

Especially  was  this  thought  prominent  in  the  mind  of 
Carice,  as  she  listened  delightedly  to  the  pleasant  flow  of 
his  talk,  and  her  youthful  enthusiasm  involuntarily  sprang 
forward  to  meet  his.  Two  or  three  times,  he  caught  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  an  expression  that  not  only  puz 
zled,  but  pained  him.  But  for  the  absurdity  of  the  sup 
position,  he  would  have  said  that  it  was  pity  ! 

In  the  hope  of  finding  a  clue  to  the  mystery,  he  took  a 
position  near  her,  when  they  rose  from  the  table, — leaning 
with  an  easy  grace  against  the  mantel,  while  she  occupied 
the  low  window-seat, — and  the  two  were  soon  deep  in  a 
conversation  of  absorbing  interest.  Beginning  with  books, 
it  slowly  led,  by  the  way  of  the  morning's  service  and  ser 
mon,  up  to  vital  questions  of  duty  and  morals.  In  its 
course,  it  developed  so  many  points  of  sympathy  between 
the  colloquists, — such  happy  correspondence  of  opinion, 
without  lifeless  unanimity, — so  many  dove-tailed  segments 
of  thought,  glad  to  meet  in  close  and  completing  union, — 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bergan,  listening,  at  first,  with  indulgent 
interest,  finally  began  to  exchange  uneasy  glances,  and,  at 
length,  withdrew  to  the  piazza  for  a  hurried  consultation. 

For  this  fair  daughter  of  theirs — this  blue-eyed  Carice, 
with  the  lily-like  pose,  and  the  rose-like  face — was  their 
idol.  Not  specially  congenial  on  other  points,  they  were 
yet  made  one  by  their  engrossing  devotion  to  her.  She 
was  at  once  their  exceeding  joy  and  their  exquisite  pain. 


136  HOLDEX   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

Although  she  had  scarcely  been  ill  a  day  in  her  life,  she 
had  a  seeming  delicacy  of  constitution  that  kept  them  in  a 
constant  quake  of  terror.  She  had  also  a  sensitiveness  of 
temperament,  as  well  as  a  singular  purity  and  simplicity  of 
character,  that  filled  them  with  nameless  forebodings  for 
her  happiness.  All  their  days  were  spent  in  keeping  safe 
watch  and  ward  between  her  and  the  first  threatenino-s  of 

O 

evil,  of  whatever  nature.  Every  coming  shadow,  every 
adverse  influence,  was  foreseen  or  forefelt,  and  turned  aside, 
before  it  could  reach  her. 

Especially,  of  late, — seeing  her  continual  growth  in 
loveliness,  of  a  character  at  once  so  rare  and  so  attractive, 
— they  had  charged  themselves  with  the  duty  of  watching 
against  any  unwise  bestowal  of  her  affections,  and  conse 
quent  misery.  And,  up  to  this  time,  there  had  been  no 
cause  for  alarm.  But  now,  as  Mrs.  Bergan  glanced  back 
through  the  window  at  the  rapt  talker  and  listener,  noting 
the  earnestness  and  heightened  color  of  the  one,  and  the 
unwonted  brightness  half-hidden  under  the  drooping  lashes 
of  the  other,  she  turned  to  her  husband  with  an  anxiety 
that  needed  no  further  explanation. 

"They  are  cousins,  remember,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  snatch 
ing  at  the  first  thread  of  hope,  though  not  without  a  suffi 
cient  sense  of  its  fragility. 

"  Only  half-cousins,  at  best, — or  rather,  at  worst,"  re 
plied  his  wife.  "  And  so  utterly  different  in  type  and 
temperament,  that  the  relationship  could  never  be  set  up 
as  an  insurmountable  barrier.  Besides,  having  never  met 
before,  they  now  meet  as  strangers." 

"Then  it  will  not  do  to  encourage  him  in  coming  here," 
said  Mr.  Bergan,  after  a  pause.  "  I  could  never  give  Carice 
to  a  drunkard,  though  he  were  fifty  times  as  handsome  and 
talented." 

At  this  moment,  Carice,  awaking  as  from  a  dream, 
looked  round  for  her  parents.  Seeing  them  on  the  piazza, 
she  quickly  rose,  and  came  toward  them,  followed  by  Ber- 


SEEING,  BUT   UNDERSTANDING   NOT.  137 

gan.  There  was  something  in  the  action  inexpressibly 
reassuring  to  the  troubled  spectators.  The  engrossing 
spell  of  the  young  man's  conversation  was  so  suddenly 
broken,  when  she  missed  her  father  and  mother  from  her 
side !  They  looked  at  each  other  with  a  smile,  and  Mrs. 
Bergan  playfully  whispered, — 

"  I  suspect  that  we  are  two  fools  !  " 

Nevertheless,  enough  of  the  effect  of  these  few  mo 
ments  of  parental  anxiety  remained,  to  fling  a  slight 
shadow  over  the  party.  Carice  felt  it  first,  in  her  quick 
sympathy  with  all  her  parents'  moods ;  and  Bergan  caught 
it  from  her  as  speedily  as  if  there  were  already  some  in 
visible  bond  between  the  two.  Without  knowing  why,  he 
very  soon  became  aware  that  the  atmosphere  was  again  grow 
ing  chill  aixmnd  him.  He  had  been  basking,  not  in  a  broad 
glory  of  summer,  but  only  in  a  flicker  of  winter  sunshine. 

Under  these  circumstances,  Mr.  Bergan's  announcement 
that  it  was  time  to  set  forth  for  the  five  o'clock  service,  was 
heard  as  a  relief.  Almost  immediately,  however,  it  was 
followed  by  an  unreasoning  pang  of  regret.  It  needed  no 
soothsayer  to  tell  him  that  moments  like  those  just  passed, 
were  to  be  rare  in  his  immediate  experience  of  life. 

Dusk  was  fast  gathering  in  the  corners  and  under  the 
arches  of  the  little  church,  when  the  service  was  over. 
Parting  with  his  relatives  at  the  door,  Bergan  went  his 
solitary  way  to  his  lodgings,  through  the  deepening  twi 
light.  He  walked  slowly,  not  that  the  road  was  so  pleas 
ant,  but  because  the  end  had  so  little  attraction.  The 
walls  and  furniture  of  his  room  were  still  strangers  to 
him; — no  one  corner  would  allure  him  with  a  more  familiar 
charm  than  another,  no  particular  chair  would  draw  him 
irresistibly  to  its  accustomed  arms,  no  sweet,  tangled  crop 
of  associations  would  fling  their  mingled  light  and  shadow 
across  the  floor.  It  would  all  be  dim,  blank,  lonely.  And 
the  foot  falls  but  heavily  on  the  path,  the  termination  of 
which  neither  satisfies  habit  nor  excites  imagination  ! 


138  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

Nevertheless,  the  slowest  progress  brings  one  quickly 
to  the  end,  if  the  journey  be  short ;  and  Bergan's  linger 
ing  steps  brought  him  to  Mrs.  Lyte's  gate  ere  the  dusk  had 
deepened  into  total  obscurity.  Entering  the  wide  hall, 
which  extended  through  the  whole  depth  of  the  house,  lie 
saw  Mrs.  Lyte  seated  at  the  farther  end,  in  a  doorway 
opening  on  the  garden.  Her  little  daughter  Cathie  was 
sobbing  at  her  side,  in  what  seemed  an  uncontrollable  pas' 
sion  of  grief  and  indignation.  The  child's  protector  and 
playmate,  a  half-superannuated  old  mastiff,  named  Nix,  sat 
on  his  haunches  at  a  little  distance,  watching  the  scene 
with  sympathetic,  intelligent  eyes. 

Cathie  was  already  Bergan's  fast  friend.  During  yes 
terday's  work  of  arrangement,  she  had  at  first  hovered 
around  him  at  a  distance ;  then,  yielding  to  the  uncon 
scious  fasc'.aation  of  the  young  man's  look  and  smile,  as 
well  as  the  irresistible  attraction  of  the  litter  of  books  and 
papers,  she  had  drawn  nearer ;  later  on,  she  had  eagerly 
favored  him  with  the  somewhat  questionable  help  of  her 
small  fingers,  arid  the  amusing  chatter  of  her  tireless 
tongue  ;  and  she  had  ended  by  giving  him  all  her  child 
ish  confidence,  and  a  large  share  of  her  freakish  affections. 

Freakish — because  Cathie  was  a  sort  of  elf-child; — or 
it  might  be  truer  to  say  that,  in  her  small  compass,  there 
were  many  elf-children  ;  manifesting  their  several  individu 
alities  through  her  changeable  moods,  and  sending  their 
various  gleam  through  the  almost  weird  splendor  of  her 
dark  eyes.  She  could  be  wild  and  tender,  playful  and 
passionate,  wise  and  simple,  by  turns  ;  or  in  such  quick 
and  capricious  succession  that  she  seemed  to  be  all  ut  once. 
She  took  as  many  shapes,  in  her  Sittings  about  the  house,  as 
there  were  hours  in  the  day  ; — now  a  teasing  sprite,  now  a 
dancing  fairy, — at  this  moment,  a  tender  human  child, 
melting  into  your  arms  with  dewey  kisses, — the  next,  a 
mocking  elf,  slipping  from  your  grasp  like  quicksilver, 
and  leaving  you  with  a  doubt  if  there  could  be  anything 


SEEING,  BUT   UNDERSTANDING   NOT.  139 

human  about  her, — and  anon,  a  fiery  little  demon,  with 
enough  of  concentrated  rage  in  her  small  frame  to  suffice 
for  a  giant. 

It  was  in  this  latter  phase  that  she  was  now  exhibiting 
herself. 

"  I  won't  believe  it ! "  she  screamed,  clenching  her 
small  fists,  and  jumping  up  and  down  in  a  fury  of  excite 
ment.  "  I  won't  believe  it !  It  isn't  true  !  Miss  Ferrars 
is  a—" 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  mother,  softly,  hearing  the  sound  of 
Bergan's  step. 

— "  A  mean,  lying  old  maid  !  "  went  on  Cathie,  with 
out  an  instant's  hesitation.  "  I  wish  I  had  told  her  so  !  I 
will,  when  I  see  her  again  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  mother  again,  more  decidedly  ;  lay 
ing  her  hand  over  the  rebellious  mouth,  by  way  of  enforc 
ing  the  mandate. 

But  Cathie  broke  from  her,  and  ran  towards  Bergan. 
At  a  few  paces  distant,  she  stopped  and  underwent  one  of 
her  sudden  metamorphoses ;  the  convulsive  fury  left  her 
features,  and  in  its  stead,  there  came  a  grave  sorrow  and 
wistfulncss,  piteous  to  behold.  Fixing  her  dark,  bright 
eyes  full  on  Bergan's  face,  she  solemnly  asked, — 

" Are  you  bad,  Mr.  Arling  ?  Tell  me,  are  you  really  a 
bad  man  ?  " 

Whatever  mistakes  Bergan  may  have  made,  in  his  life, 
or  may  make  hereafter, — whatever  sins  he  may  commit, 
through  ignorance,  or  in  sudden  passion, — let  it  be  remem 
bered,  to  his  credit,  that  he  could  meet  those  clear,  inno 
cent,  child-eyes,  without  a  blush,  and  answer  the  question 
as  gravely  and  simply  as  it  had  been  asked, — 

"  No,  Cathie,  I  do  not  think  that  I  am." 

The  truthful  accents  found  their  instant  way  to  the 
child's  heart.  Her  confidence — which,  in  truth,  had  really 
never  been  lost — was  restored  fourfold.  She  threw  Lerself 
into  his  arms,  and  laid  her  young  cheek  against  his,  in  a  lov- 


140  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

ing  attempt  to  atone  for  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  him. 
Nix  came  also,  and  rubbed  his  great  head  against  the  young 
man's  knee,  with  an  apparent  understanding  of  the  whole 
matter. 

Nor  was  the  child's  mind  the  only  one  to  which  Ber- 
gan's  words  had  brought  quick  conviction.  Hearing  his 
low,  grave  tones  of  denial,  Mrs.  Lyte  felt  a  weight  lifted 
from  her  spirits.  She  had  just  been  listening  to  the  story  of 
Bergan's  intoxication,  with  adornments,  brought  by  a  gos 
siping  neighbor,  and  her  heart  had  sunk  with  fear  lest 
trouble  and  discomfort  had  found  their  way  under  her  roof, 
with  the  new  inmate.  But  seeing  him  thus  acquitted  by  the 
child  and  the  dog, — two  most  unprejudiced  judges,  she 
thought, — she  quietly  dismissed  her  fears.  For,  though  so 
gentle  and  shrinking  in  manner  as  to  give  the  impression  of 
having  no  character  at  all,  Mrs.  Lyte  was  yet  quite  capable 
of  foi-ming  an  independent  opinion,  and  of  abiding  by  it. 

So,  when  Bergan  came  toward  her,  leading  Cathie  by 
the  hand,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  point  him  to  a  seat. 

"  Your  room  must  be  lonely,"  said  she,  kindly.  "  Will 
you  sit  with  us  for  awhile  ?  " 

But  Bergan  did  not  heed,  if  he  heard,  the  invitation. 
He  merely  looked  his  hostess  in  the  eyes,  and  said  ; — 

"  Mrs.  Lyte,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  what  made 
Cathie  ask  me  that  question  just  now  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it.  But,  Mr.  Arling,  the  sub 
ject  was  closed,  for  me,  with  her  question  and  your  answer. 
Would  it  not  be  as  well  for  you  to  let  it  rest  there,  also  ?  " 

Bergan  only  shook  his  head.  And  after  a  moment's  study 
of  his  grave  face,  Mrs.  Lyte,  very  quietly,  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
in  which  she  had  no  concern,  mentioned  the  report  that  had 
been  brought  her.  As  quietly,  Bergan  told  her  the  whole 
story  of  his  stay  at  the  Hall : — doing  so  the  more  readily,  it 
needs  not  to  be  said  to  those  anywise  skilled  in  the  intricacies 
of  the  human  mind,  because  he  felt  that  it  was  not  required 
of  him.  For,  though  Mrs.  Lyte  listened  with  the  kindest 


SEEING,  BUT   UNDERSTANDING   NOT.  141 

interest  and  sympathy,  she  took  care  to  show  by  her 
manner  that  she  did  so  more  to  satisfy  him  than  herself. 
In  matters  like  this,  she  was  accustomed  to  trust  her  in 
stincts  more  implicitly  than  her  reason  ;  and  she  was  wise 
enough  to  know  that  trust  is  the  short  road  to  truth,  in  all 
characters  not  radically  bad. 

And  thus,  with  the  singular  inconsequence  of  human 
life,  the  explanation  was  made  where  it  was  not  needed,  and 
left  unspoken  where  it  would  have  availed  much  against 
future  misunderstanding,  trouble,  wrong,  and  sorrow  ! 


IV. 

PATIENT  WAITING. 

or  six  weeks  now  glided  slowly  by,  without 
working  any  change  in  either  the  circumstances  or 
the  relations  of  the  chai'acters  with  whom  this  his 
tory  has  to  do.  Bergan  still  shivered  in  the  chill  remote 
ness  of  position  into  which  he  had  been  flung,  partly  by  his 
fault  and  partly  by  his  misfortune.  Not  only  between  him 
and  his  relatives,  but  dividing  him  from  the  whole  reputable 
outside  world,  there  seemed  to  be  a  gulf  fixed,  impassable 
save  to  formal  courtesies  and  commonplace  usages.  Any 
thing  warmer,  more  personal,  more  exacting,  sought  in  vain 
for  an  eligible  crossing  place  ;  and,  if  it  leaped  the  gray 
chasm,  it  was  only  to  lose  itself  among  chill,  elusive  shapes 
of  mist,  on  the  opposite  side. 

Thus  excluded  from  the  only  society  for  which  he  cared, 
Bergan  did  not,  as  a  Aveaker  character  might  have  done,  be 
take  himself  for  consolation  to  the  lower  circles  of  vice  and 
dissipation  that  would  have  welcomed  him  rapturously.  He 
could  better  afford  to  stand  alone,  he  thought,  than  to  throw 
himself  into  arms  whose  embrace  would  soil,  and  whose 
seeming  support  was  an  insidious  undermining.  Besides, 
it  was  much  more  in  accordance  with  his  character  to  re 
gard  the  exclusion  from  which  he  suffered  as  a  challenge  to 
be  answered,  an  adversary  to  be  overcome,  rather  than  a  ver 
dict  to  be  acquiesced  in.  He  would  prove  to  the  world  that 
it  had  been  mistaken. 

Day  after  day,  therefore,  he  spent  in  his  office, — as  many 
a  new-fledged  lawyer  has  done  before  him, — waiting  with 
what  patience  he  might  for  the  clients  that  never  came,  and 


PATIENT   WAITING.  143 

reading  hard,  by  way  of  preparation  for  the  cases  that  never 
presented  themselves.  It  was  dull  and  lonely  work  ;  yet  it 
did  him  good  service,  in  giving  him  time  for  thought  and 
reflection,  and  in  making  him  acquainted  with  his  own  re 
sources  of  will,  courage,  patience,  and  energy. 

The  only  persons  who  came  within  the  circle  of  loneliness 
that  surrounded  him,  were  Mrs.  Lyte,  Cathie,  and  Dr.  Rcmy. 
The  first  showed  him  much  gentle,  unobtrusive  kindness, 
chiefly  manifesting  itself  in  a  motherly  oversight  of  his 
rooms  and  prevision  of  his  wants.  The  second  fluttered  in 
and  out  of  his  office,  like  a  bird  or  a  butterfly,  affording  him 
much  amusing,  and  often  opportune,  distraction  from  hard 
study  or  sober-hued  thought.  But  neither  of  these  two, 
for  obvious  reasons,  could  give  him  just  the  close,  helpful 
friendship,  of  which  he  stood  in  need. 

Neither  did  he  find  it  in  Dr.  Remy.  Though  he  met  the 
physician  daily,  and  often  engaged  with  him  in  hour-long 
colloquies  upon  all  sorts  of  topics,  he  ne.ver  felt  that  he 
really  knew  him  any  better  than  on  the  first  day  of  their  ac 
quaintance.  The  doctor's  peculiar  frankness,  which  had 
seemed,  at  first  sight,  to  promise  such  facility  of  intimacy, 
proved  to  be  really  more  of  the  nature  of  an  elastic  barrier, 
yielding  everywhere  to  the  slightest  pressure,  but  nowhere 
completely  giving  way.  Or,  it  might  be  still  more  fitly 
characterized  as  a  deceitful  quagmire,  wherein  the  curious 
explorer  sank  indefinitely,  but  never  touched  solid  bottom. 

Not  that  the  doctor  was  at  all  reticent  in  regard  to  the 
main  facts  of  his  outward  life.  In  a  desultory  way  he  had 
furnished  Bergan  with  a  sufficiently  distinct  outline  sketch  of 
his  somewhat  eventful  career,  up  to  the  present  moment, — 
a  career  which,  for  shifts  and  turns,  outdid  that  of  Gil  Bias. 
According  to  this,  he  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  the  posthu 
mous  son  of  a  French  refugee,  by  an  American  wife.  When 
he  was  twelve  years  old,  his  mother  had  presented  him  with 
a  stepfather.  The  gift  proved  so  little  to  his  taste  that, 
two  years  later,  he  ran  away  from  the  pair,  and  flung  him- 


144:  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

self  into  that  El  Dorado  of  boyish  imagination — life  at  sea. 
In  one  capacity  or  another,  during  the  next  twelve  years, 
he  not  only  contrived  to  visit  most  of  the  countries  of  Eu 
rope,  but  also  by  dint  of  natural  aptitude  for  study,  to  pick 
up  a  language  or  two,  and  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  es 
sential  part  of  a  college  curriculum.  It  now  occurred  to 
him  to  return  to  New  Orleans,  and  claim  the  modest  patri 
mony  awaiting  him  there,  in  the  hands  of  his  father's  execu 
tors.  He  found  that  his  stepfather  had  been  dead  for 
three  or  four  years,  and  his  mother,  after  having  exhausted 
her  own  scanty  resources,  was  sinking,  with  her  two  chil 
dren,  into  the  dreary  depths  of  poverty.  It  cost  her  some 
effort  to  recognize  the  slender  stripling  of  her  memory  in 
the  brown,  bearded,  broad-shouldered  man,  who  now  pre 
sented  himself  before  her  as  her  son.  However,  his  iden 
tity  was  satisfactorily  established,  both  by  certain  indisput 
able  personal  marks,  and  by  the  presumptive  evidence  of 
his  willingness  to  assume  the  burden  of  her  support. 

His  next  step  had  been  to  place  himself  in  a  lawyer's 
office,  where,  in  virtue  of  close  application,  he  made  months 
do  the  work  of  years.  Admitted  by-and-by  to  the  Bar,  he 
had  practised  his  profession  for  a  brief  space,  but  finding 
the  legal  life  not  wholly  to  his  taste,  he  had  flung  it 
aside  ;  and  with  the  ready  facility  which  had  character 
ized  his  whole  career,  had  betaken  himself  to  the  study  and 
the  practice  of  medicine.  Here,  he  averred,  he  had  found 
his  true  vocation,  the  rightful  mistress  of  his  intellect,  and 
should  undergo  no  more  transformations,  and  indulge  in  no 
more  wanderings. 

So  far,  Dr.  Remy  gave  quite  as  frank  an  account  of  him 
self  as  could  be  expected  or  desired.  But  when  it  came  to 
his  inner  life  of  thought,  opinion,  principle,  his  frankness 
was  of  the  sort  that  obscures,  rather  than  explains.  It  put 
forth  jest  and  earnest,  reason  and  sophistry,  airy  spiritual 
ity  and  dead  materialism,  with  equal  readiness,  and  with 
as  much  show  of  interest  in  one  as  the  other.  If  Bergan 


PATIENT   WAITING.  145 

caught  at  what  seemed  to  be  substance,  it  turned  to  shadow 
in  his  grasp.  If  he  grappled  with  apparent  earnest,  it 
quickly  resolved  itself  into  a  hollow  helmet  of  sudden  cham 
pionship,  or  a  thin  mask  of  irony.  He  was  often  startled 
with  a  doubt  whether  the  doctor  had  any  settled  opinions 
or  principles.  He  pulled  down,  but  he  built  not  up  ;  he  at 
tacked,  but  he  rarely  defended, — or,  if  he  defended  a  thing 
to-day,  more  likely  than  not,  he  would  assault  it  to-mor 
row.  All  Bergan's  own  opinions  and  beliefs  seemed  to  lose 
their  consistency  in  the  universal  solvent  of  the  doctor's 
talk,  and  only  took  shape  again  after  a  protracted  process  of 
precipitation,  in  his  own  mind  and  heart. 

If  the  latter  organ  made  any  part  of  Doctor  Remy's 
bodily  system,  it  never  manifested  itself  to  Bergan  by  any 
noticeable  throb  or  sensible  warmth.  The  young  man  was 
often  puzzled  by  the  question  whence  came  the  doctor's 
evident  interest  in  himself,  since  it  seemed  so  plain  that  it 
did  not  spring  from  any  warm  personal  liking.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  the  object  of  his  careful  study,  frequently  ;  of 
his  spontaneous  affection  and  sympathy,  never.  He  could 
not  but  wonder  at  such  an  amount  and  duration  of  a  purely 
intellectual  interest, — for  such  he  decided  it  to  be, — when 
it  promised  so  little  result. 

However,  the  doctor's  was  the  only  society,  worthy  of 
the  name,  that  was  offered  to  him ;  his,  too,  the  only  friend 
ship,  or  semblance  thereof,  that  came  within  his  reach.  He 
gratefully  availed  himself  of  both,  even  while  conscious 
that  neither  fully  met  his  wants,  or  would  have  been  the 
object  of  his  deliberate  choice.  Without  this  resource,  the 
flow  of  Bergan's  life  would  have  been  characterized  by  a 
drearier  monotony,  even,  than  at  present. 

The  first  slight  break  in  its  placid  current,  occurred  one 
morning,  on  his  retimi  from  breakfasting  at  the  hotel. 
To  his  surprise,  Vic  was  tied  before  Mrs.  Lyte's  gate,  arch 
ing  her  neck,  and  twisting  her  ears  about,  in  her  usual 
wild  and  nervous  fashion.  In  most  confiding  proximity 


14G  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

to  her  restless  heels,  Brick  lay  fast  asleep  on  the  sunshiny 
sward. 

Roused  by  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  the  lat 
ter  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  donned  the  palm-leaf  debris  that 
he  termed  his  hat,  in  time  to  doff  it  in  deferential  acknowl 
edgment  of  Bergan's  surprised  greeting. 

"  Why,  Brick  !  how  do  you  do  ?  Is  anything  the  mat 
ter  at  the  Hall  ?  " 

"  No,  massa  Harry,  nothing  't  all.  Only,  ole  massa,  he 
say  we's  gittin  lazy, — Vic  an'  me; — an'  he  tought  you'd 
better  be  gettin'  some  good  out  ob  us,  dan  to  leab  us  in  de 
stable — no,  I  mean,  in  the  cabin,  no,  one  in  de  stable  and 
turrer  in  de  cabin — a-eatin'  our  heads  off; — dat's  jes'  what 
he  said,  massa.  So  he  dared  us  off  in  a  hurry,  an'  tolc  us 
to  gib  you  his  lub,  and  tell  you  dat  he  'sposed  you'd  kinder 
forgotten  'bout  us." 

There  could  be  no  question  but  that  the  overture  was 
kindly  meant,  on  the  Major's  part,  but  it  was  one  that  Ber- 
gan  could  not  possibly  accept.  Judging  from  present  indi 
cations,  it  would  be  long  before  his  professional  income 
would  suffice  for  his  own  support,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
additional  expense  of  a  servant  and  horse.  Besides,  he  had 
never  regarded  either  Brick  or  the  filly  as  actual  gifts,  but 
only  convenient  loans,  for  his  use  while  at  the  Hall.  Any 
other  view  of  the  matter  would,  by  no  means,  have  suited 
his  independent  character.  And,  if  this  had  been  the  case  be 
fore  the  rupture  with  his  uncle,  it  was  doubly  so,  now.  Major 
Bergan  must  not  be  suffered  to  think  that  his  resentment  had 
given  way,  or  that  his  good  will  had  been  restored,  by  the 
aid  of  any  gifts,  however  valuable,  or  kindly  bestowed. 

Yet  he  would  be  glad  to  send  his  uncle,  a  friendly  mes- 
*age,to  show  that  he  was  really  grateful  for  his  kindness, 
and  ready  to  accept  any  overture  which  Avould  not  burden 
him  with  too  heavy  a  sense  of  obligation.  To  ensure  its 
safe  delivery,  without  the  risk  of  hopeless  travesty,  at 
Brick's  hands,  he  went  to  his  desk,  and  wrote : 


PATIENT   WAITING.  147 

"  DEAK  UNCLE  :  Thank  you  for  sending  me  your  love; 
that  is  a  thing  which  I  am.  glad  to  get  and  keep.  But  I 
cannot  keep  either  Brick  or  Vic, — I  have  no  present  use  for 
them,  and  no  means  of  providing  for  them,  if  I  had.  Be 
sides,  I  never  rcgai-ded  either  as  mine,  except  while  I 
remained  at  the  Hall.  Many  thanks,  all  the  same,  for  your 
kind  intentions. 

"  Your  affectionate  nephew, 

'HARRY.'" 

The  signature  was  written  only  after  considerable  hesi 
tation.  His  note  would  be  sure  to  fail  of  the  desired  con 
ciliatory  effect,  if  it  wholly  ignored  the  name  upon  which 
his  uncle  had  so  strenuously  insisted.  Yet  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  incorporate  it  with  his  lawful  sign-manual.  He 
was  forced  to  compromise  matters  by  thus  using  it  as  a 
sort  of  sobriquet. 

Giving  the  note  to  Brick,  he  bade  him  take  it  straight 
way  to  his  master.  The  negro's  face  instantly  fell ;  then, 
it  brightened  again  with  the  light  of  a  plausible  explana 
tion. 

"  I  'spec  I'se  to  come  back,  arter  I'se  'livered  it  ?  "  he 
asked,  anxiously. 

"  No,  Brick,"  Bergan  gravely  answered.  "  I  cannot 
afford  to  keep  you ;  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do,  just  now,  to 
keep  myself." 

•  "  But,  massa  Harry,"  remonstrated  Brick,  "  don't  you 
know  I  'longs  to  you  ?  I'se  your  nigger,  sure  as  deff ;  ole 
massa  gib  me  to  you,  an'  tole  me  to  wait  on  you,  don' 
you  'member  ?  An'  how's  I  a  goin'  to  wait  on  you,  I'd  jes' 
like  to  know,  wid  tree  good  miles  atween  us?  'Sides,  I'd 
feel  so  mortify  to  go  right  back  dar,  like  a  dog  dat  don' 
own  no  massa,  arter  I  done  tole  'em  all  I's  coming  to  lib 
wid  you." 

It  was  not  without  difficulty  that  Brick  was  convinced 
of  the  inevitableness  of  his  return  to  Major  Bergan.  Not 


148  HOLDER   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

only  did  his  heart  yearn  to  be  in  the  service  of  his  young 
master,  but  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  he  could  help, 
rather  than  hinder,  his  fortunes.  He  forcibly  expressed  his 
willingness  to  work  his  fingers  off  in  the  cause,  and  gravely 
proposed  to  put  himself  on  a  course  of  semi-starvation,  in 
the  matter  of  "  keep."  All  this  being  of  no  avail,  he  was 
finally  forced  to  mount  Vic,  and  turn  homeward,  a  picture 
of  the  blackest  despair. 

On  the  way,  his  mind  was  illumined  with  a  gleam  of 
hope.  Like  all  the  negroes  of  the  plantation,  he  had  large 
faith  in  the  occult  power  of  old  Rue.  His  present  jour 
ney,  he  well  knew,  was  mainly  owing  to  her  influence.  If 
she  could  be  made  to  see  the  propriety  of  his  immediate 
return  to  Bergan's  service,  as  he  did,  no  doubt  she  conld 
find  a  way  to  bring  it  to  pass.  And  her  conversion  to  his 
views  could  be  effected,  he  shrewdly  thought,  by  a  skilful 
use  of  Bergan's  confession  of  straitened  circumstances,  as 
well  as  a  certain  suggestive  increase  of  gravity  that  he  had 
observed  in  the  young  man's  manner.  His  smile  had  not 
come  quite  so  readily  and  brightly  to  his  lips  as  in  the  old 
days  at  Bergan  Hall.  No  doubt  he  was  poor,  lonely,  and 
troubled.  He  needed  some  one  to  take  care  of  him,  and  watch 
over  him.  And  who  so  eligible  to  this  position  as  himself? 
For  Brick  had  inherited  his  gi-andmother's  devotion  to  the 
Bergan  blood,  and  believed  that  the  chief  end  of  his  being 
was  to  live  and  die  loyally  in  its  service.  Moreover,  his 
young  master  had  not  only  taken  tenacious  hold  of  his 
affections,  but  also  of  that  still  stronger  faculty  of  the  negro 
mind — his  imagination.  Though  he  might  be  a  distressed 
knight,  just  at  present,  Brick's  faith  was  firm  that  his  time 
of  triumph  was  not  far  off;  and  then,  he  wanted  to  be 
"  there  to  see  ! " 

He  lost  no  time,  therefore,  in  presenting  himself  before 
Rue,  on  his  arrival  at  Bergan  Hall.  And  so  dexterously 
did  he  work  upon  her  love  and  pride,  by  the  deplorable 
picture  that  he  drew  of  Bergan's  sadness  and  poverty,  that 


PATIENT   WAITING.  149 

the  faithful  old  nurse  straightway  betook  herself  to  her 
master,  and  never  left  him  till  she  had  persuaded  him  to 
mount  his  horse,  and  set  forth,  at  a  brisk  trot,  toward  Ber- 
ganton. 

In  truth,  the  Major  was  only  too  glad  to  be  so  per 
suaded.  His  anger  towai'ds  his  nephew  had  quickly  burned 
out,  by  reason  of  its  own  fury  ;  and  in  thinking  the  matter 
over,  he  had  come  to  be  more  tickled  by  the  young  man's 
prowess  than  he  had,  at  first,  been  displeased  by  his  flight. 

"You  should  have  seen  him  knocking  those  fellows 
around,  like  so  many  ninepins ! "  he  exclaimed,  exultingly, 
to  Rue.  "  I  couldn't  have  done  it  more  neatly  myself,  in 
my  best  days.  I  tell  you,  he  is  a  true  Bergan  at  bottom, 
if  he  has  got  a  few  crinks  and  cranks  at  top.  What  a 
pity  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  stay  quietly  on  the 
old  place,  where  he  belongs ;  and  which  he  might  have 
done  what  he  pleased  with,  if  he  had  only  taken  me  on 
the  right  tack !  But  he'll  come  back — he'll  come  back ! 
Estates  like  Bergan  Hall  don't  grow  on  every  bush.  It 
won't  take  him  long  to  find  out  that  he  can't  raise  one  from 
the  law.  And  then,  he'll  be  glad  to  come  back  to  me ;  and 
I'll  receive  him  as  the  father  did  the  prodigal  son ! " 

But,  as  time  rolled  on,  and  Bergan  did  not  appear  to 
claim  this  welcome,  the  Major  began  to  feel  a  chagrin  that 
would  quickly  have  been  intensified  into  anger,  but  for  the 
happy  suggestion  that  the  young  man  delayed  merely  be 
cause  he  was  dubious  as  to  his  reception.  This  view  of  the 
matter  was  an  excellent  salve  to  whatever  of  bitter  or 
wounded  feeling  the  Major  still  retained.  Bergan  longing, 
yet  fearing,  to  return  to  him,  was  a  vision  that  gently 
soothed  his  pride,  while  it  appealed  powerfully  to  his  sym 
pathies. 

Matters  having  reached  this  point,  he  yielded  easily  to 
Rue's  suggestion  that  Bergan's  horse  and  servant  should 
be  sent  to  him,  as  a  hint  that  hostilities  had  ceased.  And 
though  their  prompt  return  was,  at  first,  new  matter  of 


150  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

wrath,  Bergan's  note,  Brick's  report,  and  Rue's  representa 
tions  and  entreaties,  availed  to  smother  the  half-kindled 
flame,  and  send  him  forth  toward  Berganton  in  a  most  for 
giving  and  patronizing  frame  of  mind.  He  was  ready  to 
make  any  concessions  to  his  nephew's  principles  and  habits. 
If  Bergan  would  but  return  to  the  Hall,  he  might  dictate 
his  own  terms,  and  order  his  life  in  his  own  way.  The 
Major  had  missed  him  more  than  he  would  have  been  will 
ing  to  allow.  The  old  place  had  not  seemed  the  same 
without  him.  Its  present  had  lost  a  strong  element  of  cheer 
and  energy,  and  its  future  had  faded  into  dimness. 

Arriving,  in  due  time,  at  Mrs.  Lyte's  gate,  the  Major 
dismounted,  and  was  about  to  enter,  when  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  little  tin  plate,  in  Bergan's  office  window,  which  has 
before  been  mentioned.  If  it  had  been  the  head  of  Me 
dusa,  with  all  -its  supernatural  powers  intact,  it  could 
scarcely  have  wrought  a  more  complete  change  in  the 
expression  of  his  face.  First,  he  glared  at  it  in  incredulous 
wonder ;  then,  he  nearly  choked  with  inarticulate  rage ; 
finally,  words  came  to  his  relief.  To  the  consternation  of 
Mrs.  Lyte,  and  the  intense  gratification  of  the  crowd  of 
boys  and  negroes  which  quickly  gathered  at  a  safe  dis 
tance,  he  proceeded  to  pour  forth  a  volley  of  the  bitterest 
curses  that  he  could  frame  upon  the  author  of  what  he 
chose  to  consider  an  insult  to  himself,  and  a  disgrace  to  his 
lineage. 

"  That  I  should  live  to  see  the  name  of  Bergan  on  a 
snip  of  a  tin  sign,  like  that !  "  he  growled,  shaking  his  fist 
at  the  offending  plate,  and  trembling  with  rage  ; — "  what 
right  had  the  scoundrel  to  put  it  there,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  '  Attorney  at  Law,'  indeed  ! — he  shall  have  law 
enough,  since  he  likes  it  so  well !  I'll  sue  him  for  trespass, 
libel,  forgery, — I'll  horsewhip  him,  and  then  have  him  in 
dicted  for  assault  and  battery, — I'll — ."  But  here  his  in 
dignation  choked  him,  for  a  moment. 

Recovering  his  voice,  his  anger  took  a  new  direction. 


PATIENT   WAITING.  151 

"  '  Bcrgan  Arling,'  indeed  !  "  he  muttered, — "  I  suppose  be 
Avas  ashamed  of  the  '  Harry,'  though  he  could  put  it  at 
the  end  of  his  note, — smooth-faced  hypocrite  that  he  is ! 
Where  is  he?"  he  went  on,  lifting  his  voice.  "Why  don't 
he  come  out,  and  face  me,  like  a  man  ?  Must  I  go  in  and 
drag  him  out,  by  the  nape  of  the  neck, — the  mean,  sneak 
ing,  insulting  puppy  !  " 

"  Mr.  Arling  is  out,  I  regret  to  say,"  said  Dr.  Remy, 
appearing  in  the  doorway,  and  confronting  the  furious 
Major  with  his  cool,  cynical  smile.  "  He  went  out  for  a 
walk  some  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  ago.  If  he  were  here, 
no  doubt  it  would  give  him  great  pleasure  to  meet  you." 

Major  Bergan  scowled  in  a  way  to  show  how  willingly 
he  would  transfer  his  wrath  to  this  timely  object,  if  he 
could  only  find  a  reasonable  excuse.  But,  discovering  not 
the  shadow  of  one  in  the  doctor's  polite,  careless  manner, 
he  contented  himself  with  growling, — 

"  Out,  is  lie  ?  I  wish  he  were  out  of  the  county — and  a 
good  riddance  !  When  will  lie  be  in  ?  " 

"  Not  under  an  hour  or  two,"  answered  the  doctor,  wisely 
postponing  the  era  of  Bergan's  return  to  the  utmost  limit. 

"  Umph  !  that's  the  way  he  spends  his  time,  is  it  ?  loaf 
ing  about  the  country  when  he  should  be  in  his  office  ! 
Well,  I've  got  something  to  do,  besides  wait  for  him.  Just 
tell  him,  will  you  ?  that  I  owe  him  a  good,  sound  horse 
whipping,  and  I'll  pay  it  to  him  the  first  time  I  meet  him." 

"  I  will  take  charge  of  your  kind  message  with  pleas 
ure,"  returned  the  doctor,  blandly.  "  Any  further  com 
mands  ?" 

"  No  !  "  roared  the  Major,  with  a  dim  suspicion  that  he 
was  being  made  to  appear  ridiculous, — "  not  unless  you  like 
to  come  out  and  take  the  horsewhipping  yourself.  On  the 
whole,  I'd  just  as  soon  give  it  to  you." 

"  Many  thanks,"  replied  the  doctor,  with  imperturbable 
coolness.  "  But  I  could  not  consent  to  appropriate  any 
thing  designed  for  Mr.  Arling." 


152  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

"  If  it  hurts  your  conscience,  you  can  pass  it  over  to 
him,"  rejoined  Major  Bergan,  with  grim  humor. 

"  It  would  lose  its  flavor  at  second-hand,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  smiling. 

"  It  would  be  your  own  fault,  if  it  did,"  responded  the 
Major.  "  At  any  rate,  take  care  that  my  message  don't 
lose  anything,  on  the  way.  And  while  you're  about  it, 
just  tell  him  that  he  shall  never  have  Bergan  Hall,  nor  an 
inch  of  ground  that  belongs  to  it,  never  !  I'll  give  it  to 
—Astra  Lyte,  first !  " 

The  doctor  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  an  in 
timation  that  the  Major's  disposition  of  his  property  was  a 
matter  that  did  not  interest  him ;  but  the  latter  mistook  it 
for  a  sign  of  incredulity. 

"  I  will !  I  swear  I  will !  "  he  repeated,  with  an  oath. 
"And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  he  went  on,  after  a  slight  pause, 
as  if  the  sudden  idea  had  unexpectedly  commended  itself  to 
him, — "  why  shouldn't  I  ?  Her  father  was  my  cousin  ;  and 
he  had  Bergan  blood  in  his  veins,  too,  through  his  mother ; 
and  he  was  a  right  good  fellow,  besides.  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Miss  Lyte  is  in  New  York,  on  a  visit,"  replied  the 
doctor. 

"  Umph  !  I  should  like  to  see  her.  Is  she  growing  up 
bright  and  handsome  ?  " 

"She  is  both,"  returned  the  doctor,  briefly. 

"  Then,  she  shall  have  it !  "  exclaimed  the  Major,  with 
sudden  decision.  "  I'll  go  home,  and  make  my  will.  Tell 
Harry  so,  for  his  comfort,  when  he  comes  back." 

And  the  Major,  delighted  that  he  had  bethought  him 
self  of  a  revenge  so  swift  and  ample,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  rode  off. 

On  Bergan's  return,  the  scene  was  described  to  him  by 
Doctor  Remy,  with  a  minuteness  and  accuracy  of  detail 
and  coloring  that  did  great  credit  to  that  gentleman's 
powers  both  of  observation  and  description.  Nevertheless, 
thei*e  was  something  of  cynicism,  or  of  satire,  that  grated 


PATIENT    WAITING.  153 

on  his  listener's  ear ;  and  he  finally  stopped  the  doctor's 
flow  of  eloquence  with  the  question, — • 

"  Who  is  Astra  Lyto  ?  " 

The  doctor  looked  at  him,  with  much  surprise.  "  Is  it 
possible  that  you  have  not  yet  heard  of  her  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  She  is  Mrs.  Lyte's  eldest  daughter  ;  and  a  genius,  too, — 
or,  at  least,  an  artist; — they  are  not  always  synonymous 
terms,  I  believe.  But  where  have  you  been  living,  not  to 
have  become  acquainted  with  her  name  before  this  ?  It  is 
always  on  Mrs.  Lyte's  lips ;  at  least,  she  is  ready  to  talk  of 
her  by  the  hour,  with  a  little  encouragement." 

"  My  conversations  with  Mrs.  Lyte  have  not  been  many 
nor  long,"  replied  Bergan.  "  An  artist,  did  you  say  ?  " 

But  Doctor  Remy  had  fallen  into  a  fit  of  thought.     He 
merely  answered  the  question  by  a  nod  ;  and  very  shortly, 
he  left  Bergan  to  his  own  reflections. 
7* 


V. 

UNDER   THE    OAKS. 

"TVTOT  many  weeks  after  the  preceding  incidents,  Bergan 
1  \|  went  out,  early  one  afternoon,  for  a  long,  solitary 
ramble.  It  was  not  his  wont  to  leave  his  office 
before  dusk,  but  his  head  ached  with  study,  and  his  heart 
with  loneliness  and  discouragement;  an  intolerable  weari 
ness  and  irksomeness  had  taken  possession  of  him ;  his 
book  seemed  meaningless,  and  his  brain  paralyzed  ;  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  turn  from  the  world  of  thought, 
that  had  suddenly  grown  so  insufferably  arid  and  dead,  to 
the  living,  breathing  world  of  nature.  Forest,  and  field, 
and  wave,  if  they  could  not  give  him  intelligent  sympathy, 
could  at  least  furnish  him  gentle  distraction. 

And,  oftentimes,  there  was  a  subtile  harmony,  almost 
amounting  to  sympathy,  between  his  lonely  moods,  and 
the  soft,  rich,  yet  melancholy,  Southern  landscape, — for 
melancholy  it  always  seemed  to  him,  though  that  effect 
may  have  been  partly  owing  to  the  gray  medium  of  isola 
tion  and  depression  through  which  he  viewed  it.  But, 
whatever  its  origin,  this  gentle  mournfulness  was  the  land 
scape's  consummate  charm, — at  least,  for  any  burdened 
human  heart.  It  is  possible  that  Eden  wore  a  soft  grace 
of  pensive  beauty,  after  the  fall,  which  Adam  and  Eve, 
wandering  back  thither,  would  have  counted  a  dearer 
delight,  in  their  then  mood,  than  its  old,  unshadowed 
brightness. 

On  his  way  out,  Bergan  found  Nix  stretched  at  full 
length  across  the  threshold.  With  the  usual  preference  of 
his  race  for  masculine  over  feminine  society,  the  dog  had 


UNDER   THE    OAKS.  155 

early  attached  himself  to  the  young  man,  as  much  as  was 
consistent  with  a  different  ownership.  He  now  rose,  shook 
himself,  wagged  his  tail,  and  looked  wistfully  in  Bergan's 
face.  Meeting  with  no  rebuff,  he  made  bold  to  follow 
him. 

Leaving  the  town  behind  as  quickly  as  possible,  Bergan 
first  struck  into  a  long,  lonely  lane,  shut  in,  on  either  side, 
by  a  thick  border  of  multifarious  foliage.  Trees  and  shrubs, 
both  deciduous  and  evergreen,  not  only  mingled  their 
boughs  along  its  sides,  but  were  tied  together  in  an  intri 
cate  polygamous  knot  by  tangled  vines.  There  was  an 
endless  diversity  of  form  and  color, — every  shape  of  leaf, 
and  every  hue  and  shade  of  green  and  brown,  with  occa 
sional  tints  of  red,  purple,  and  orange,  both  pale  and 
bright, — and  everywhere  the  gray  fringe  of  the  Spanish 
moss. 

By  and  by,  the  lane  terminated  in  the  inevitable  pine 
barren,  which  frames  all  Southern  landscape  pictures.  It 
stretched  away,  in  every  direction,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach, — a  vast,  dim  solitude,  with  a  thick,  blue-green  roof, 
upheld  by  innumerable  slender  columns,  and  a  carpet  of 
fallen  needles,  on  which  the  foot  fell  without  a  sound.  A 
mysterious  sigh  pervaded  it,  even  when  no  breeze  was 
astir  ;  its  light  was  but  a  gentle  gloom ;  and  it  had  a  soft, 
aromatic  atmosphere  of  its  own,  as  if  it  were  another  world. 
No  fitter  place  could  have  been  found  for  the  indulgence 
of  a  youthful  day  dream,  with  enough  of  inherent  light  and 
color  to  overcome  the  prevailing  sombreness,  or,  at  least, 
to  set  itself  in  stronger  relief  against  so  darksome  a  back 
ground.  But  to  Bergan,  the  vast,  dim  monotony,  with 
its  suggestive  correspondence  to  the  cii'cumstances  of  his 
own  life,  brought  only  added  heartache.  The  chance 
openings  into  the  sky  were  so  few,  and  the  sunshine  never 
fell  save  flickeringly,  at  the  farther  extremity  of  some  long 
vista !  He  soon  began  to  yearn  for  outlook  and  aspiration, 
some  spot  affording  at  least  a  glimpse  of  the  surrounding 


156  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

world,  as  well  as  a  fair  look  at  the  open  sky.     Happily,  he 
knew  where  to  find  it. 

Long  since,  he  had  discovered  for  himself  a  convenient 
and  attractive  out-door  haunt, — a  kind  of  natural  ampin- 
theatre,  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  numerous  bays,  or  creeks, 
of  the  vicinity.  Great,  patriarchal  live-oaks,  with  hoary 
beards  of  moss  trailing  even  to  the  ground,  had  ranged 
themselves  in  a  semi-circle,  on  a  high  bank,  overlooking 
the  water.  Standing  in  attitudes  of  ponderous  grace,  each 
one  scattered  shade  and  quietude  over  fifty,  sixty,  or,  it 
might  be,  an  hundred,  feet  of  sward.  Through  a  broad 
opening,  in  the  midst  of  the  dignified  circle,  the  cheerful 
sunshine  fell  unbrokenly;  and  on  the  water-side,  there  was 
a  fair  stretch  of  blue  waves,  with  a  sea-green  horizon-line 
afar ;  and  over  all,  a  wide  half-dome  of  sky,  with  its 
changeable  tracery  of  clouds,  and  its  transparent  concord 
of  color.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  the  hand  of  man  had 
not  wrought  with  that  of  nature,  to  produce  a  spot  so 
perfect.  Many  a  sunset  had  Bergan  enjoyed  there;  many 
a  twilight  had  he  mused  away,  under  the  rustling  oak- 
boughs;  many  a  time,  the  rising  moon  had  found  him 
there,  and  surrounded  him  with  weird  enchantment. 

All  along,  this  spot  had  been  the  goal  of  his  steps, 
though — by  way  of  trying  first  what  help  and  heart  were 
to  be  found  in  exercise — he  had  chosen  to  reach  it  by  a 
most  circumlocutory  route.  So  far  as  he  knew,  it  was  his 
own,  by  right  of  occupancy,  as  well  as  discovery ;  never 
had  it  showed  a  sign  that  it  knew  the  pressure  of  any  other 
human  foot. 

As  he  drew  near,  the  sun  was  sending  long,  slanting 
beams  of  ruddy  light  athwart  the  amphitheatre,  and  dye 
ing  the  polished  oak-leaves  in  rich  tints  of  gold  and  orange. 
He  quickened  his  steps,  the  sooner  to  reach  the  point 
whence  sunset-splendors  were  to  be  seen  to  the  best  advan 
tage;  and  upon  which  he  had  taken  occasion  to  construct 
a  low,  rustic  seat. 


UNDER   THE    OAKS.  157 

To  his  amazement,  it  was  already  occupied.  A  lady 
was  quietly  seated  therein,  her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand, 
her  eyes  (as  he  judged  from  her  pose,  for  her  back  was  to 
ward  him)  fixed  on  the  glowing  sky. 

Pie  stopped  short,  uncertain  whether  to  advance  or 
retreat. 

Nix — who  had  lingered  behind,  to  make  a  feint  of  hunt 
ing  a  squirrel — settled  the  question  for  him.  Coming  upon 
the  scene,  he  first  sniffed  the  air,  and  then  dashed  at  the 
intruder.  Fearing  lest  his  intentions  might  be  unfriendly, 
— or,  at  least,  that  the  lady  would  be  startled  by  his  sudden 
appearance, — Bergan  sternly  called  after  him ; — 

"  Nix  !  Nix  !     Here !     Come  back,  you  scamp ! " 

But  Nix,  if  he  heard,  certainly  did  not  heed.  lie  was 
fawning  upon  the  lady,  in  a  way  to  indicate  a  pi'evious 
acquaintance  of  considerable  standing  and  intimacy.  She, 
on  her  part,  received  his  rude  caresses  quite  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  cordially  patted  his  rough  head.  Then  she 
turned  to  Bergan. 

"  Nix  does  not  mean  to  be  disobedient,"  said  she,  auolo- 
getically.  "  Only,  he  recognizes  in  me  an  older  friend  than 
Mr.  Arling,  and,  perhaps," — she  smiled, — "  a  superseding 
authority," 

Bergan  bowed.  "He  is  fortunate,"  said  he, — "that  is, 
in  finding  a  friend,  old  or  new,  where  he  did  not  look  for 
one." 

He  spoke  with  a  slight  bitterness  of  tone,  in  involun 
tary  recognition  of  the  fact  that  no  such  pleasant  discovery 
was  e1»er  the  reward  of  his  own  aimless  rambles.  At  the 
same  time,  he  looked  curiously  at  the  lady,  seeking  a  clue 
to  her  identity.  She  had  seemed  to  know  him ;  yet  lie 
could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  met  her  before. 

Apparently,  she  was  young ;  certainly,  she  was  small, 
and  somewhat  slender.  Without  being  absolutely  pretty, 
her  face  was  exceedingly  intei'esting,  by  reason  of  its  mo 
bility  and  vivacity  of  expression  ; — albeit,  its  changes  were 


158  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

not  always  to  be  easily  understood,  nor  its  language  at 
once  interpreted.  Her  eyes  were  of  the  darkest  gray, 
with  a  clear  and  penetrative  glance,  that  seemed  to  go 
straight  to  the  depths  of  whatever  object  they  sought. 
Her  manner,  though  perfectly  feminine,  had  an  air  of 
strength  and  energy,  in  marked  contrast  with  the  languid 
grace  which  is  the  more  frequent  product  of  Southern  soil. 
She  was  very  simply  dressed, — in  some  soft,  gray  material, 
the  one  beauty  of  which  was  its  ability  to  fall  in  artistic 
folds  about  her  figure; — nevertheless,  there  was  a  certain 
pleasant  peculiarity,  a  kind  of  sober  picturesqueness,  about 
her  attire,  that  lifted  it  more  surely  out  of  the  region  of  the 
common-place  than  any  richness  of  texture,  or  newness  of 
fashion,  could  have  done.  Moreover,  it  satisfied  the  eye 
with  a  sense  of  fitness;  it  was  plainly  the  legitimate  out 
growth  of  the  wearer's  character.  Not  that  it  bid  defiance 
to  fashion,  but  it  did  not  conform  to  it  to  the  extent  of  a 
complete  sacrifice  of  individuality. 

Her  only  ornament  was  a  cluster  of  bright  scarlet 
leaves,  that  she  had  doubtless  found  on  her  way  thither, 
and  fastened  on  her  breast ;  and  which  an  opportune  sun- 
ray  now  touched  into  vivid  splendor.  This,  too,  suited  her. 
It  seemed  the  subtile  outward  expression  of  some  corre 
spondingly  warm  and  rich  characteristic  within  ;  glowing 
soft  against  the  gray  texture  of  an  otherwise  grave,  earnest, 
almost  severe  character.  It  might  be  sparkling  wit,  or 
warm  affections,  or  both,  that  were  thus  pleasantly  symbol 
ized. 

She  met  Bergan's  curious  glance  with  a  quiet*  smilo, 
that  seemed  to  understand  its  object,and  enjoy,  beforehand, 
its  discomfiture.  She  even  answered  it  with  a  brief  scru 
tiny,  that  was  hardly  less  in  earnest,  though  not  at  all  puz 
zled, — scarcely,  even,  inquiring. 

At  this  moment,  the  sun  suddenly  disappeared.  The 
two  faces,  that  had  been  so  clearly  and  ruddily  lit  up  by 
his  declining  beams,  were  left  pale  and  shadowed,  looking  at 


UNDEK    THE    OAKS.  159 

each  other  under  the  solemn  old  trees ;  through  the  branches 
of  which  the  wind  now  began  to  whisper  softly,  as  if  moved 
to  utter  some  sombre  prediction,  which  yet  it  could  not 
make  quite  plain. 

"Do  you  believe  in  omens?"  asked  the  young  lady, 
with  a  kind  of  playful  shiver. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Bergan,  looking  a  little  sur 
prised. 

"  It  is  as  well  that  you  do  not.  For  I  suspect  that  they 
are  like  certain  modes  of  medical  treatment ;  they  require 
a  large  element  of  faith  to  make  them  efficacious.  And,  to 
say  truth,  neither  do  I  believe  in  them — except  in  a  poetical 
way.  If  I  did,  I  should  say  that  this  sudden  shadow 
augurs  but  badly  for  our  future  acquaintance,  and  influence 
upon  each  other." 

"  If  it  means,"  replied  Bergan,  "  that  we  are  to  know 
sunshine  and  shade  together,  little  more  could  be  predicted 
— or  desired — of  any  earthly  acquaintance." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Still,  as  I  do  believe  in  omens,  as  I  said 
before,  in  a  poetical  way,  I  am  glad  to  see  that  the  sun  is 
not  really  set,  after  all.  He  only  sank  into  a  deceptive  line 
of  cloud.  There  !  he  comes  forth  again,  to  give  us  another 
bright  glance  before  his  final  leave-taking.  And,  in  order 
to  leave  the  omen  in  its  present  satisfactory  state,  I  will  an 
ticipate  his  departure.  Good  evening." 

Slightly  inclining  her  head,  as  she  passed  Bergan,  she 
quickly  disappeared  under  the  low-hanging  oak  boughs. 

Nix  looked  after  her,  for  a  moment  ;  then  he  turned  to 
Bergan,  as  if  wondering  why  he  did  not  go,  too.  Seeing 
no  sign  of  departure,  he  was  about  to  fling  himself  upon  the 
ground,  when  a  clear,  sweet  whistle  suddenly  sounded  from 
the  direction  which  the  young  lady  had  taken.  Pricking 
up  his  ears,  he  instantly  set  off  at  a  great  pace  ;  leaving 
Bergan  with  a  vague  sadness,  as  having  been  deserted  by 
his  last  friend. 

However,  the  feeling  was  but  momentary.     Very  quickly 


1GO  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

he  turned  to  the  consideration  of  the  interesting  question 
who  his  late  interlocutor  might  be.  Running  over  in 

O  ~ 

his  mind  all  the  branches  of  the  family  of  Bergan,  in  the 
neighborhood  (of  which  there  were  several,  more  or  less 
direct),  he  soon  decided  that  she  did  not  harmonize  with 
what  he  knew  of  any  of  them.  Yet  she  had  seemed  to  know 
him ;  and  to  think,  and  even  to  intimate,  that  they  were 
likely  to  meet  again,  and  possibly  to  exert  a  degree  of  in 
fluence  upon  each  other's  lives.  And  still,  as  he  pondered 
and  questioned,  the  oak  trees  kept  whispering  overhead, 
with  all  their  multitudinous  tongues,  an  apparently  full,  but 
unintelligible,  explanation. 

He  bewildered  himself  with  conjectures,  until  all  the  sun 
set  tints  had  faded  from  the  sky,  and  darkness  was  fast 
gathering  under  the  oak  boughs.  Then  he  rose,  and  went 
his  solitary  way  homeward. 

Arrived  at  Mrs.  Lyte's  gate,  it  seemed  to  him  that  there 
was  an  unusual  stir  and  liveliness  about  the  house.  Cer 
tainly,  a  broad  beam  of  light  was  shining  across  the  hall, 
from  a  door  that  he  had  never  before  seen  open.  Ere  he 
could  think  what  these  things  betokened,  Cathie  came  run 
ning  to  meet  him,  with  a  great  piece  of  news  in  her  beaming 
face. 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Arling  ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  almost  breath 
less  delight,  "  Astra  has  come  !  " 

The  mystery  was  at  an  end.  Indeed  it  could  scarcely 
have  been  a  mystery,  but  for  two  concurrent  circumstances. 
In  the  first  place,  knowing  Miss  Lyte  to  be  an  artist, — or  at 
least,  an  art-student, — and  possessed  of  a  sufficiently  inde 
pendent  character  and  spirit,  he  had  unconsciously  sketched 
a  portrait  of  her  in  his  fancy,  very  different  from  the  orig 
inal, — taller,  larger,  with  more  color,  and,  certainly,  less 
feminine.  And,  secondly,  only  the  day  before,  he  had  heard 
Mrs.  Lyte  lamenting  that  her  daughter  would  not  be  at 
home  for  another  month. 

A  sudden  turn  of  circumstances,  however,  had  wrought 


USDEK   THE   OAKS.  161 

an  equally  sudden  change  in  Miss  Lyte's  plans ;  and,  taking 
advantage  of  the  opportune  escort  afforded  by  a  business 
trip  of  a  friend,  she  had  journeyed  southward  with  such  ce 
lerity  as  to  outstrip  the  letter  of  announcement  that  she  had 
dispatched,  a  day  before  her  departure  from  New  York. 
Reaching  home  almost  immediately  after  Bergan  had  gone 
out  for  his  solitary  stroll,  she  had  spent  the  afternoon  in  a 
long,  earnest,  circumstantial  talk  with  her  mother, — discus 
sing  her  plans  and  prospects, — throwing  off,  with  careless 
fluency,  vivid  picture  upon  picture  of  her  art  life  and 
work  in  the  city, — listening  eagerly  to  interjectional 
items  of  home  news, — and  cheering  Mrs.  Lyte's  heart, 
through  and  through,  with  her  bright  spirits,  her  ready, 
yet  healthful,  sympathy,  and  the  inspiring  energy  both 
of  her  manner  and  mind.  With  the  very  sight  of  her, 
more  than  half  the  widow's  burden  of  sorrow  and  care 
had  slipped  unconsciously  from  her  shoulders. 

Finally,  toward  sunset,  foreseeing  an  unusual  amount  of 
sky-splendor,  she  had  gone  forth  for  a  brief  enjoyment  of  it 
to  her  old,  favorite  haunt, — the  oak  glade  which  Bergan  had 
also  discovered  and  taken  into  favor.  Meeting  the  young 
man  there,  she  had  instantly  recognized  him, — by  reason  of 
Nix's  suggestive  companionship,  and  her  mothei-'s  recent 
description, — and  had  taken  an  innocent  pleasure  in  sub 
jecting  him  to  a  transient  mystification. 

"  She  gave  us  such  a  surprise,"  went  on  Cathie,  joy 
ously.  "  Mamma  almost  fainted,  and  I — guess  what  I  did, 
Mr.  Arling." 

To  please  her,  Bergan  guessed  what  he  supposed  to  be 
the  most  unlikely  thing  ;  and  so,  in  consequence  of  the 
child's  peculiar  character,  he  guessed  right. 

"  Doubtless,  you  cried,"  said  he. 

"  So  I  did,"  replied  Cathie,  opening  her  eyes  wide, 
"  though  I  can't  see  how  you  knew  it.  But  I  thought  I  was 
laughing,  all  the  time,  till  Astra  asked  me  why  I  was  so 
sorry  to  see  her,  and  offered  to  go  away  again  '  if  the  sight 


162  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE   COEDS. 

of  her  was  so  painful ! '  And  that  made  me  laugh,  in 
good  earnest !  And  oh  !  Mr.  Arling,  do  come  and  see  her 
little  white  boy  !  She  has  just  been  unpacking  him,  to 
show  him  to  mamma." 

"  Willingly,"  replied  Bergan,  "  if  you  are  sure  that  she 
would  like  me  to  see  him." 

"  I'll  ask  her,"  replied  Cathie,  darting  through  the  open 
doorway  at  the  left,  whence  came  the  broad  beam  of  light 
aforementioned,  and  through  which  Bergan  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Mrs.  Lyte's  black-draped  figure,  seated  at  the 
farther  conier  of  the  room,  in  an  attitude  of  pleased  con 
templation  of  some  object  not  within  his  range  of  vision. 

The  next  moment,  Miss  Lyte  herself  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  and,  seeing  by  his  face  that  his  mystification  was 
over,  she  frankly  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  So  you  have  found  me  out  ! "  said  she,  laughing. 
"  Was  it  wicked  in  me  not  to  answer  that  look  in  your  eyes, 
which  said  so  plainly,  '  Who  on  earth  can  she  be  ? '  Can 
you  pardon  my  selfish  enjoyment  of  your  perplexity  ?  " 

"  A  perplexity  that  ends  so  pleasantly  deserves  thanks 
rather  than  pardon,"  returned  Bergan. 

And  having  answered  Mrs.  Lyte's  cordial  greeting,  and 
congratulated  her  upon  the  event  which  had  brought  such 
unaccustomed  radiance  into  her  face,  Bergan  turned,  with  a 
pardonable  curiosity — or  it  might  more  fitly  be  termed,  an 
inevitable  interest, — to  glance  around  the  room  in  which  he 
found  himself.  Never  before  had  he  happened  to  enter  that 
middle  ground  between  the  airiest  ideal  and  the  earthliest 
real,  which  is  occupied  by  a  sculptor's  studio. 


VL 

OF   CLAY. 

BERGAN'S  first  glance  around  the  studio  was  neces 
sarily  a  comprehensive  one,  dealing  with  general 
effect,  rather  than  minute  detail.     A  large  (though 
not  a  lofty)  room;  a  bare  floor;  walls  crowded  with  de 
signs  and  studies  ;  four  or  five  busts  and  statues  standing 
around  the  sides,  and  the  life-size  figure  of  a  child  in  the 
middle,  of  the   room ; — this   was   what   that  first  glance 
revealed  to  him. 

Cathie  gave  him  no  time  for  a  second.  "  Look  at  the 
dear  little  boy,  Mr.  Arling ;  do  look  at  him ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  joining  her  hands  over  her  head,  and  executing  a 
rapturous  pas  seul  around  the  object  of  her  delight.  "See 
his  cunning  little  whip,  and  his  funny  little  feet,  and  isn't 
he  a  little  white  darling ! " 

Thus  besought,  Bergan  turned  his  attention  to  the 
statue  in  the  midst. 

At  first  sight,  it  seemed  to  represent  merely  a  pretty 
and  playful  human  child,  with  a  toy-whip  in  his  hand,  his 
head  half-turned  over  one  shoulder,  and  an  arch  and 
roguish  expression,  as  if  bent  on  some  errand  of  mischief. 
But,  while  Bergan  continued  to  gaze,  fascinated,  the  small 
physiognomy  seemed  to  grow  wily  and  malign,  as  well  as 
arch ;  and  an  intelligence,  far  more  swift  and  subtle  than 
ever  infant  of  mortal  race  was  gifted  withal,  informed  the 
tiny  features.  The  light  feet,  too,  were  plainly  moved  by 
deliberate  purpose  of  guile,  rather  than  childish  impulse ; 
and  on  their  soles,  broad  sinuate  leaves  were  bound,  either 
for  protection  or  disguise. 


164:  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

Bergan  looked  at  the  figure  long  and  earnestly,  enjoy 
ing  its  delicate  freshness  and  piquancy,  but  trying  in  vain 
to  fathom  its  meaning. 

"  What  will-o'-the-wisp  is  it  ?  "  he  finally  asked.  "  And 
what  is  he  doing,  with  his  soft  cunning  and  smiling  malice  ?  " 

"He  is  a  god,"  replied  Astra.  "As  to  his  errand,  it  is 
the  laudable  one  of  cattle-stealing." 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  case  of  very  early  depravity,"  said 
Bergan,  smiling,  yet  puzzled. 

"  Early  enough  to  be  termed  '  original  sin,'  "  returned 
Astra.  "  For 

'  The  babe  was  born  at  the  first  peep  of  day  *  * 
And  the  same  evening  did  he  steal  away 
Apollo's  herds.' — 
Did  you  ever  read  Homer's  '  Hymn  to  Mercury  ?  '  " 

"  Never.  Indeed,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  ever  heard 
of  it,"  replied  Bergan.  "  Is  it  usually  counted  among  his 
works  ?  " 

"  I  think  so ;  though  it  is  fair  to  say  that  his  authorship 
of  it  has  been  questioned.  At  any  rate,  Shelley  has  put 
it  into  very  musical  English  verse  ;  and  there  I  found  my 
subject.  The  circumstances  of  Mercury's  birth  being  first 
narrated,  the  newborn  immortal  is  described  as  '  a  babe  all 
other  babes  excelling,'  and  also  a  subtle  schemer  and  thief. 
He  first  invents  tne  lyre,  and  accompanies  his  own  im 
promptu  song  of  '  plastic  verse,'  with  it ;  then  he  is  '  seized 
Avith  a  sudden  fancy  for  fresh  meat,'  and  betakes  himself 
to  the  Pierian  mountains,  where  Apollo's  '  immortal  oxen' 
are  feeding.  Separating  fifty  from  the  herd, 

'  He  drove  them  wandering  o'er  the  sandy  way, 
But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft, — ' 

that  is  to  say,  his  inborn  guile, — 

'  Backward  and  forward  drove  he  them  astray, 

So  that  the  tracks,  which  seemed  before,  were  aft: 

His  sandals  then  he  threw  to  the  ocean-spray, 
And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind  of  raft 

Of  tamarisk  and  tamarisk-like  twigs,' " — 


OF    CLAY.  165 

"  I  see,"  said  Bergan,  smiling.  "  The  consummate 
little  rogue ! " 

Astra  went  on: — 

" '  And  on  his  feet  lie  bound  these  sandals  light, 
The  trail  of  whose  wide  leaves  might  not  betray 
His  track  ;  and  then,  a  self-sufficing  wight,  *  * 
He  from  Pieria's  mountain  bent  his  flight, — ' 

driving  the  stolen  cattle  before  him,  of  course.  And  this 
is  the  moment  at  which  I  have  sought  to  represent 
him." 

"And  very  perfectly  you  have  succeeded,"  said  Bergan, 
admiringly.  "  The  arch  cunning  and  malice  of  the  face  is 
simply  wonderful.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  statue 
lacks  but  one  thing." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  "  said  Astra,  quickly ;  at  the  same 
time  flashing  a  swift,  searching  glance  at  her  work,  as  if 
she  would  fain  have  anticipated  the  criticism. 

"It  does  not  tell  how  the  story  onded." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Astra,  looking  both  relieved  and  amused. 
"  I  am  glad  that  you  did  not  keep  me  Availing  so  long  as 
Michael  Angelo  did  poor  Domenico." 

"  How  long  was  that,  pray  ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear.  Domenico  Ghirlandaio,  a  celebrated 
Florentine  painter,  having  completed  a  picture  of  St.  Fran 
cis,  upon  which  he  had  exhausted  his  utmost  skill,  and 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  perfect,  sent  for  a  young  artist 
of  great  promise,  Buonarotti  by  name,  (who  had  also  been 
his  pupil),  and  asked  for  his  opinion  of  the  work.  The 
young  man  contemplated  it  for  some  moments,  said  gravely, 
'It  needs  but  one  thing,'  and  departed.  The  master  re 
mained,  to  study  the  picture  anew,  to  pore  over  it  hour 
after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  and  rack  his  brain  with  the 
question  what  it  needed.  Years  after,  Avhen  Buonarotti 
had  become  Michael  Angelo,  and  filled  the  world  with  his 
fame,  Domenico  sent  for  him  to  come  to  his  death-chamber. 
'What  did  the  picture  need  ?'  he  asked,  faintly.  'Only 


1GG  HOLDER    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

speech,'  replied  Michael  Angelo.  The  old  master  smiled, — 
and  died." 

"It  is  a  touching  story,"  said  Bergan.  "And  it  is 
almost  an  allegory,  too.  For  '  only  speech '  is  so  often  the 
great  need  of  life !  All  our  deepest  feeling  and  best 
thought  are  inarticulate.  But  am  I  to  be  indulged  with 
the  rest  of  this  story,  also  ?  "  he  added,  turning  again  to 
the  statue. 

"  I  will  give  it  you  in  brief,"  replied  Astra,  "  by  way  of 
whetting  your  appetite  for  the  richer  savors  of  the  poem 
itself.  Having  driven  his  stolen  cattle  to  Alpheus,  the 
infant  god  selected  two  fat  heifers  for  sacrifice.  And  here, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  one  of  the  finest  touches  in  the  whole 
poem.  After  kindling  his  fire,  slaying  his  heifers,  and 
offering  a  portion  to  each  of  the  twelve  gods, 

— — '  his  mind  became  aware 


Of  all  the  joys  that  in  religion  are. 
For  the  sweet  savor  of  the  roasted  meat 

Tempted  him,  though  immortal.     Nathless 
lie  checked  his  haughty  will  and  did  not  eat, 

Though  what  it  cost  him  words  can  scarce  express.' 

Here,  you  see,  is  real  self-denial  and  self-conquest, — for 
the  sake  of  making  an  acceptable  sacrifice, — and  their  deep 
after  delight." 

"If  the  offering  had  been  less  ill-gotten,"  remarked 
Bergan,  somewhat  dryly,  "I  think  the  'touch  '  would  have 
been  still  finer." 

"I  confess  that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  that,"  said 
Astra,  laughing,  "in  my  admiration  of  the  infant  god's 
mastery  over  himself.  Still,  we  cannot  expect  to  find  the 
purity  of  the  Gospel  standard  of  life  in  the  heathen  myth 
ology  ;  we  can  but  be  thankful  for  the  gleams  of  Divine 
light  here  and  there  irradiating  it,  since  a  whole  people 
long  lived  and  died  under  its  sanction.  But,  at  this  rate, 
my  story  will  never  end !  The  baby  god  next  proceeded 


OF   CLAY.  167 

to  remove  every  trace  of  his  holocaust,  working  all  night 
'in  the  serene  moonshine.'  Then,  at  break  of  clay,  he  be 
took  himself  to  his  natal  cavern,  crept  quickly  to  his  cradle, 
pulled  his  '  ambrosial  swaddling  clothes  about  him,'  and  put 
on  a  soft  semblance  of  new-born  innocence.  In  due  time, 
Apollo,  having  discovered  the  loss  of  his  cattle,  and  sus 
pecting  who  was  the  rogue,  came  to  the  cavern,  found  the 
'  subtle,  swindling  baby,'  lying  '  SAvathed  in  his  sly  wiles,' 
and  taxed  him  with  the  theft.  At  once,  the  young  '  god 
of  lies'  shows  forth  his  character.  He  stoutly  denies  all 
knowledge  of  the  mischief;  he  pathetically  declares, — 

'  I  am  but  a  little  newborn  thing, 
Who  yet,  at  least,  can  think  of  nothing  wrong ; 

My  business  is  to  suck  and  sleep  and  fling 
The  cradle-clothes  about  me  all  day  long, — 

Or,  half-asleep,  hear  my  sweet  mother  sing, — 
And  to  be  washed  in  water  clean  and  warm, 
And  hushed  and  kissed  and  kept  secure  from  harm ; — ' 

and,  finally,  he  swears  that  he  does  not  even  know  '  what 
ever  things  cows  are! '  However,  Apollo  turns  a  deaf  ear 
to  all  his  wiles  and  pleadings,  and  compels  him  to  go  before 
Jupiter ;  who  laughs  to  hear  his  plausible  account  of  him 
self, — '  and  every  word  a  lie,' — but  finally  bids  him  show 
Apollo  where  he  has  hidden  the  stolen  cattle.  This  he 
does, '  nothing  loath,'  and  finally  subdues  the  sun-god 


-'  by  the  might, 


Of  winning  music,  to  his  mightier  will : 

sweet  as  love, 

The  penetrating  notes  did  live  and  move 

Within  the  heart  of  great  Apollo :  he 

Listened  with  all  his  soul,  and  laughed  for  pleasure.' 

"  And  here  we  may  as  well  leave  them.  For  the  rest  of 
the  story, — as  well  as  for  many  pleasant  pictures  and  nice 
touches,  of  which  my  abstract  gives  no  hint, — you  should 
go  to  the  poem  itself." 


168  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  do  so,"  said  Bergan,  "  with  this  arch, 
airy  little  figure  to  lead  the  way.  But  it  should  be  in 
marble,  it  seems  to  me,  rather  than  in  plaster." 

Astra  smiled  gravely.  "  For  that,  a  patron — or,  at 
least,  a  purchaser — is  needed.  Marble  is  expensive  as  well 
as  indestructible ;  few  artists  can  afford  to  put  their  works 
into  its  safe  keeping,  without  help.  And  perhaps  it  is  as 
well  that  such  is  the  case,  else  Posterity  would  never  be 
able  to  bear  the  stony  accumulation  that  would  be  heaped 
on  its  back."1 

"  I  think  I  can  venture  to  promise  that  it  would  never 
feel  this  airy  creation  to  be  a  burden,"  said  Bergan, 
earnestly. 

"I  hope  not.  But  my  little  Mercury  is  still  my  young 
est  darling,  and  I  feel  all  a  mother's  partiality  for  it ;  I 
have  no  eyes  for  its  faults.  When  the  inevitable  time  of 
disenchantment  comes,  and  I  am  able  to  see  it  as  it  is,  I 
can  better  tell  whether  I  care  to  commit  it  to  the  white 
immortality  of  marble." 

She  continued  to  gaze  at  the  statue  for  some  moments 
with  fond,  dreamy,  wistful  eyes, — -just  as  a  mother  might 
regard  her  newborn  infant.  Bergan  felt  a  slight  pang  in 
beholding  this  nearness  of  the  work  to  its  author,  this 
strong,  tender,  indissoluble  bond  between  the  two.  Would 
ever  any  work  of  his — any  brief,  or  plea — come  from  such 
a  warm  depth  of  his  heart,  and  embody  so  much  of  his 
life?  A  poet,  a  musician  even,  might  know  something  of 
this  deep  gladness  of  creation;  but  a  lawyer,  a  judge, 
dealing  with  dry  reason  and  dusty  legal  enactments, — was 
there  any  such  joy  in  his  work  for  him  ? 

Leaving  the  question  unanswered, — as  he  must  needs 
do,  until  time  and  experience  should  come  to  his  help, — 
Bergan  turned  aneAV  to  the  contemplation  of  the  Mercury  ; 
which  seemed  to  grow  in  beauty  and  power,  as  he  con 
tinued  to  look.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  how  much  of  this 
pleasurable  effect  was  due  to  the  inherent  charm  of  the 


OF    CLAY.  169 

•work,  and  how  much  to  the  spell  shed  from  the  rapt  face 
and  softly  illuminated  eyes  of  the  artist.  Many  a  work 
that  we  look  upon  but  coldly,  would  quickly  find  its  way 
to  our  hearts,  if  we  knew  enough  of  its  history  and  its 
author,  to  give  us  the  clue  to  its  subtler  spirit  and  aim  ; 
while  those  which  we  love  without  such  knowledge,  would, 

O      *  " 

by  its  help,  be  transfigured — glorified.  If  we  could  stand 
with  Michael  Angelo  before  his  "Moses,"  or  with  Guido 
before  his  triumphant  "Archangel,"  what  new  lights  of 
interpretation  would  be  lit  for  us  at  the  eyes  and  lips  of 
those  great  masters ! 

Nor  must  it  be  said  that  the  spectator  may  be  dazzled 
by  the  artist's  enthusiasm  into  awarding  the  work  higher 
praise  than  a  cooler  judgment  would  sanction.  For  just 
here  lies  the  truth  which  is  too  often  overlooked  in  criti 
cism,  both  of  literature  and  art.  If  the  critic  be  not  in 
sympathy  with  the  worker, — if  he  do  not,  in  some  measure, 
behold  the  work  through  his  eyes, — if  he  cannot  discern 
what  was  attempted  as  well  as  what  is  attained, — then  his 
eyes  will  be  partially  holden  both  from  the  beauties  and 
the  faults  of  the  work.  For  nothing,  in  life  or  art,  was 
meant  to  be  looked  at  by  itself.  Everything  is  related  to 
something  else ;  each  helps  all.  The  moment  wherein  the 
spectator's  mood  and  the  artist's  work  make  sweet  har 
mony,  is  the  moment  of  correct  appreciation. 

If  Bergan  did  not  understand  what  an  illumination  the 

O 

presence  of  Miss  Lyte  threw  over  her  work,  he  was  fully 
conscious  that  her  work  shed  a  transfiguring  light  over 
her.  The  face  under  the  whispering  oak  boughs  was  not 
the  same  as  this  in  the  studio.  That  had  been  simply 
bright  and  mobile,  with  a  spice  of  espieylerie  ;  this  Avas  all 
alight  and  astir  with  genius.  Miss  Lyte's  very  hand  par 
took  of  the  transformation.  Bergan  had  happened  to 
notice  its  symmetrical  shape,  as  revealed  by  a  careless 
gestui'e,  at  their  first  meeting  ;  but  he  now  decided  that  it 
was  not  so  much  its  beauty  which  had  attracted  his  atten- 
8 


170  HOLDER   \VITII   THE    COEDS. 

tion,  as  a  certain  peculiarity  of  delicate  energy  and  adroit 
ness,  which  ought  of  itself  to  have  suggested  its  artistic 
skill. 

Bergan's  eye  fell  next  on  the  pedestal  of  the  Mercury, 
improvised  by  turning  up  on  end  the  packing-box  in  which 
it  had  arrived.  The  lid  lay  on  the  floor,  in  two  pieces,  and 
was  surmounted  by  a  sturdy-looking  hammer  and  chisel. 
Bergan's  glance  went  back  to  that  slender  hand,  with  an 
unconscious  question  in  it;  which  Astra  was  quick  to 
understand. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  she,  with  a  smile.  "  Of  course,  I 
might  have  called  in  old  Cato  to  open  the  box;  but  he 
would  have  done  it  so  slowly  and  awkwardly  that  I  should 
have  suffered  tortures  in  watching  him ;  it  was  easier  to  do 
it  myself.  To  be  sure,"  she  went  on,  taking  up  the  ham 
mer  and  chisel,  "these  are  not  quite  so  fit  for  a  lady's 
hands  as  the  lighter  and  slenderer  implements  that  I  use 
in  modelling ;  but  I  like  them  well,  nevertheless.  It  would 
go  hard  with  me,  here  in  this  quiet  country  town,  away 
from  all  aids  and  appliances  of  art,  if  I  were  not  on  very 
good  terms  with  purely  mechanical  labor.  I  made  the 
mould,  from  which  that  cast  was  taken,  myself ;  " — she 
pointed  to  the  Mercury. 

Bergan  looked  as  if  he  scarcely  understood. 

"  I  suppose  you  ai-e  aware,"  pursued  Astra, "  that  the  woi-d 
'  sculptor '  is  a  misnomer,  nowadays.  The  real  sculpture — 
that  is  the  marble-cutting — except  a  few  finishing  touches, 
is  done  by  artisans  skilled  in  that  work.  The  plaster  casts 
are  made  by  regular  casters,  from  moulds  taken  from  clay 
models.  These  last,  only,  are  the  work  of  the  artist 
throughout, — shaped  by  his  fingers,  and  informed  by  his 
thought.  See  !  here  is  the  raw  material  of  my  work  !  " 

She  pointed  to  a  large  triangular  box,  in  one  corner  of 
her  closet,  filled  with  fine,  moist  clay.  She  even  leaned 
over  it,  and  inhaled  its  earthy  odor,  with  a  kind  of  affec 
tion. 


OF    CLAY.  171 

Bergan  also  looked  into  it  so  long,  so  silently,  and  with 
so  meditative  an  aspect,  that  Miss  Lyte  finally  interrupted 
the  flow  of  his  thoughts  with  a  question  as  to  their  charac 
ter. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  replied  he,  "  of  the  many  differing 
shapes, — lovely,  grand,  sorrowful,  joyous,  winning,  repul 
sive, — that  might  be  lurking  within  your  tub.  And  I  was 
wondering  which  of  them  you  would  next  call  forth." 

"  Think,  rather,"  said  Astra,  smiling,  "  of  all  the  shapes 
that  I  have  sent  into  it." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  use  the  same  clay 
over  again,"  exclaimed  Bergan,  in  surprise. 

"  Certainly,  I  do.  It  loses  none  of  its  adaptability  by 
use.  In  that  tub  is  the  original  clay  of  everything  that  you 
see  in  my  studio, — all  the  busts,  statues,  and  reliefs,  that  I 
have  ever  done,  or  tried  to  do, — all  my  successes,  and  all 
my  failures  ; — every  one  of  them  has  gone  into  that  tub, 
even  as  it  came  out  of  it." 

"  Creation  and  death  !  "  exclaimed  Bergan.  " '  Dust 
thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou  shalt  return.'  It  is  a  world  in 
miniature  ! " 

"  And  does  it  not  also  show  that  there  is  nothing  new 
under  the  sun  ?  "  said  Astra.  "  It  is  always  the  old  mate 
rial  in  new  shapes,  the  old  thought  in  new  phraseology,  the 
old  human  nature  in  new  conditions,  even  the  old  particles 
of  disintegrated  human  bodies  in  new  organisms." 

"  And  yet,"  remarked  Bergan,  musingly,  "  the  spirit, 
the  idea,  that  informed  those  bodies,  and  gave  them  iden 
tity,  is  not  lost,  as  your  Mercury  shows  plainly.  The  being 
that  you  have  created  lives,  and  glows  with  all  his  proper 
warmth  and  fire,  even  though  his  original  substance  has  not 

o  o 

only  returned  whence  it  came,  but  has  helped  to  frame  an 
entirely  different  being." 

"  The  natural  body  and  the  spiritual  body,"  returned 
Astra.  "  Not  that  the  two  processes  are  really  analogous, 
— I  do  not  mean  that, — but  one  naturally  suggests  the 


172  IIOLDEN-WITH   THE   COEDS. 

other  to  the  mind.  And,  seeing  how  I  am  thus  able  to  ac 
complish  a  kind  of  resurrection,  in  a  way  that  I  understand, 
I  do  not  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  the  Almighty  can  do 
it,  in  a  way  that  I  do  not  understand,  and  far  more  per 
fectly, — retaining  not  only  the  indwelling  spirit,  but  enough 
of  the  individual  clay  to  justify  Job's  saying,  '  In  my  flesh 
I  shall  see  God.' " 

The  thought  kept  them  both  silent,  for  a  moment ;  then 
Bergan  turned  to  see  what  else  of  interest  was  to  be  found 
in  the  studio. 

The  completed  works  were  not  many  ;  Miss  Lyte  was 
still  too  young  to  have  made  a  large  accumulation  of  such 
things.  There  was  a  bust,  with  a  very  sweet  and  noble  ex 
pression,  wherein  she  had  embodied  her  recollections  of  a 
fellow  student  in  art.  There  was  a  half-sleepy,  half-ashamed 
boy-face,  looking  out  from  under  the  shadow  of  a  drooping 
hat,  representing  "  Little  Boy  Blue,"  of  nursery  fame. 
There  was  a  winged  cherub,  with  an  exceedingly  lovely, 
innocent  face, — a  very  incarnation  of  celestial  joy  and  peace. 
In  relief,  there  was  a  stout  urchin,  ankle-deep  in  water,  laden 
with  pond-lilies,  and  looking  for  more.  Finally,  there  were 
innumerable  studies,  sketches,  and  designs,  with  all  the 
warmth  and  freshness  of  the  original  inspiration  linger 
ing  about  them ;  which  interested  Bergan  scarcely  less  than 
the  finished  work,  as  admitting  him  still  more  freely  into 
the  arcana  of  the  artist's  mind  and  method. 

He  was  especially  interested  to  observe  in  how  many 
directions  the  genius  of  Miss  Lyte  had  tried  its  wing. 
There  were  studies,  and  even  finished  pictures,  in  oil  and 
in  crayon  ;  there  was  an  exquisitely-cut  cameo,  fastened  on 
a  background  of  velvet  ;  there  were  designs  for  stained-glass 
windows  ;  and  in  all,  there  was  a  curious  medley  of  subjects, 
— scriptural,  mythological,  historical,  domestic,  and  still- 
life.  It  was  plain  that  she  had  been  slowly  feeling  her  way 
to  some  point,  where  she  could  take  her  final  stand,  and  see 
her  life-work  lying  clear  and  fair  before  her.  Had  she  found 


OF    CLAY.  173 

it  ?  Looking  at  the  Mercury,  Bergan  could  almost  believe 
that  she  had  ;  but,  glancing  again  at  her  deep,  wistful  eyes, 
he  doubted  it.  A  little  more  time,  a  profounder  and  wider 
experience,  would  settle  her  genius,  fix  her  aims,  and  make 
her  capable  of  things  far  higher  than  aught  that  she  had 
yet  achieved. 

Meanwhile,  never,  he  thought,  was  anything  quite  so  in 
spiriting  as  her  conversation.  As  she  went  with  him  from 
statue  to  statue,  and  sketch  to  sketch,  talking  frankly  of  her 
difficulties  and  sti'tiggles,  her  failures  and  successes,  her  aims 
and  aspirations, — now  dropping  a  fertile  suggestion,  now 
pointing  out  a  subtile  analogy,  now  giving  the  key-note  to 
some  elevating  strain  of  thought, — she  seemed  to  radiate  en 
ergy,  and  exhale  inspiration.  Listening  to  her,  Bergan's 
depression  and  discouragement  vanished  like  mists  before 
the  sunshine.  When  he  went  back  to  his  studio,  it  was 
with  new  strength  and  courage  and  ambition.  Somehow, 
life  had  ceased  to  look  unsyrupathizing,  and  success  remote. 


vn. 

HIDDEN  KICHES.  • 

UP  to  this  time,  the  history  of  Astra  Lyte  may  be  com 
pressed  into  a  few  sentences.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  Dr.  Harvey  Lyte,  who  had  been,  for  many  years, 
the  leading  physician  of  Berganton.  Her  artistic  talent 
having  early  manifested  itself,  her  father  had  taken  pleas 
ure  in  fostering  and  developing  it  ;  first,  by  giving  her  the 
benefit  of  whatever  rudimentary  instruction  the  neighbor 
hood  offered,  and  then,  by  affording  her  a  year's  enjoyment 
of  the  best  art  advantages  to  be  procured  in  New  York. 

Little  more  than  a  year  ago,  however,  the  good  doctor 
had  been  forced  to  succumb,  in  his  own  person,  to  the  t\vo 
powerful  foes  that  he  had  spent  his  lifetime  in  battling  for 
others, — namely,  disease  and  death.  His  professional  in 
come  necessarily  dying  with  him,  only  a  moderate  pro 
vision  remained  for  his  family ;  enough  to  enable  them  to 
eat  the  bread  of  carefulness,  but  not  sufficient  to  maintain 
them  in  the  degi'ee  of  easy  comfort  and  luxury  to  which 
they  had  long  been  accustomed.  In  due  time  changes  and 
sacrifices  became  necessary  ;  among  which  may  be  men 
tioned  the  letting  of  the  vacant  medical  office  to  Doctor 
Remy,  and  the  subsequent  handing  over  of  other  dispensable 
rooms  to  the  occupancy  of  Bergan  Arling. 

Before  this  last  arrangement  was  effected,  however,  As 
tra  had  gone  to  New  York,  to  see  what  could  be  done  to 
make  her  art  productive  of  something  besides  pleasure. 
That  had  been  a  very  bright  moment,  amid  the  gloom  and 
straitness  following  upon  her  father's  death,  wherein  it  had 
occurred  to  her  that  she  possessed  in  brain  and  fingers,  in 


HIDDEN    EICIIES.  175 

her  wonderful  power  of  kneading  together  thought  and  mat 
ter  into  beautiful  and  significant  shapes,  the  means  of  re 
storing  to  her  mother  the  ease  and  independence  which  had 
been  impaired  by  her  father's  death.  Never  had  her  art 
looked  so  divine  as  when  it  cast  aside  the  soft  drapery  of 
personal  gratifications  and  aims,  and  stood  forth  a  young 
athlete,  eager  for  strife,  a  sturdy  son  of  toil,  ready  to  earn 
its  bread  by  the  sweat  of  its  brow. 

Not  that  Astra  expected  to  win  success  all  at  once,  or 
quickly.  There  was  a  vast  deal  of  practicality  under 
lying  her  imaginativeness  and  enthusiasm, — the  solid  foun 
dation  which  is  needed  to  make  genius  available.  She  fore 
saw  (no  one  more  clearly)  the  difficulties,  delays,  and  dis 
appointments,  before  her.  But  what  of  that  ?  She  was 
young ;  she  was  in  good  health  ;  she  had  a  courageous 
heart,  an  energetic  temperament,  and  buoyant  spirits ;  she 
could  afford  to  work  and  wait.  Her  tastes  were  simple, 
her  wants,  outside  the  domain  of  art,  few, — and,  even  there, 
deficiencies  could  be  supplied,  in  a  measure,  by  severe  study 
and  closer  application.  If  the  superior  masters,  the  sojourn 
in  Europe,  to  which  she  had  looked  forward,  were  denied 
her,  she  was  not  going  to  break  her  heart  nor  cloud  her 
brow,  about  it.  God,  who  had  given  her  talent,  would  not 
leave  it  without  due  means  of  increase.  Her  duty  was  to 
work,  to  be  brave,  and  to  be  cheerful ;  all  else  would  come, 
in  good  time. 

This,  then,  was  the  sort  of  a  person  who  had  now  come 
to  dwell  under  the  same  roof  with  Bergan  ;  and  who  straight 
way  set  to  work  in  her  studio,  which  was  divided  from  his 
office  only  by  the  airy  breadth  of  the  main  hall.  Of  course, 
lie  saw  her  frequently  ;  her  art  afforded  them  broader,  freer 
ground  upon  which  to  meet  than  is  always  open  to  man  and 
woman.  Not  that  the  proprieties  need  have  been  scandal 
ized  had  Miss  Lyte's  occupation  been  the  embroidering  of 
roses  in  worsted,  instead  of  the  modelling  of  figures  in  clay  ; 
for  the  door  between  studio  and  sitting-room  stood  always 


176  HOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

open,  and  Mrs.  Lyte,  from  her  work-table,  frequently  threw 
a  passing  remark  into  the  conversation  that  came  so  freely 
to  her  ears  ;  while  Cathie  continually  flashed  in  and  out  like 
a  fire-fly  or  a  humming  bird.  But  the  worsted  roses  would 
scarcely  have  constituted  a  subject  of  mutual  interest  for 
the  young  man  and  woman,  as  did  the  clay  figures  ; 
nor  would  the  talks  over  them  have  run  so  naturally,  and 
almost  inevitably,  upon  the  same  elevated  and  impersonal 
plane  of  thought.  Setting  the  worker  entirely  aside,  Ber- 
gan  could  not  fail  to  be  deeply  interested  in  the  work.  He 
liked  to  understand  its  process,  and  watch  its  progress.  It 
was  wonderful  to  him  to  see  the  dull  clay  slowly  taking  the 
shape  of  the  viewless,  informing  thought.  He  went  back 
to  his  office,  not  only  with  a  deeper  comprehension  of 
the  respective  functions  of  mind  and  matter,  but  with  a 
wider  view  of  their  scope  and  influence.  Words,  he  saw, 
were  also  a  kind  of  plastic  material,  through  which  thought 
revealed  itself  to  eye  and  ear.  He  began  to  study  expres 
sion,  as  well  as  meaning  ;  he  selected  woi'ds,  and  constructed 
sentences,  Avith  greater  care  and  conscientiousness  ;  he  paw 
that,  since  thought  could  only  become  visible  through  form, 
form  was  a  matter  of  more  moment,  and  involved  a  stricter 
duty,  than  he  had  hitherto  believed. 

But  if  Bergan  learned  so  much  from  the  work,  it  must 
be  acknowledged  that  he  also  learned  something  from  the 
worker.  She  was  so  loyal  to  her  art  and  her  aims.  She 
wrought  with  such  cheerful  diligence,  such  unwasting 
enthusiasm,  and  such  thorough  conscientiousness.  Having 
done  the  best  of  which  she  was  capable,  she  maintained 
such  a  steady  front  against  the  assaults  of  depression  and 
discouragement,  deploying  their  forces  upon  the  wide  space 
between  her  conception  and  her  achievement.  If  she  failed, 
she  cheerfully  declared  that  the  failure  had  taught  her 
more  than  any  success  could  have  done,  and  commenced 
anew ;  if  she  succeeded,  she  was  soberly  glad,  as  having 
gained  an  inch  or  two  of  the  field, — over  which,  however, 


"HIDDEN  KICHES.  177 

it  might  be  long  ere  she  could  wave  the  banner  of  victory. 
The  spectacle  could  not  fail  to  have  a  healthful  influence 
upon  Bergan,  inasmuch  as  Miss  Lyte's  patrons  were  not 
more  numerous  than  his  clients ;  he  saw  that  she  kept  her 
face  bright,  and  her  spirit  brave,  under  very  real  trials  of 
limitation,  delay,  and  disappointment.  He  always  went  to 
his  own  work  with  a  stouter  heart  and  steadier  purpose, 
after  watching  hers  for  some  moments ;  whether  she  merely 
retouched  and  revised  the  preceding  day's  labor,  with 
minute,  inexhaustible  patience ;  or  quietly  gathered  up  the 
fragments  of  a  model  overtaken  by  sudden  disaster;  or 
moulded  moist  clay,  with  rapt  face,  eyes  lit  by  a  deep, 
inward  fire,  and  fingers  so  swift  and  forceful  as  to  suggest 
the  guidance  of  some  unseen  power.  In  this  last  case,  he 
did  not  disturb  her  by  so  much  as  a  word.  He  only  looked 
on  in  silence  until  her  white  heat  of  inspiration  had  kindled 
something  like  a  kindred  glow  in  his  own  mind ;  when  he 
noiselessly  stole  out,  to  plunge  into  his  own  work  with 
renewed  ardor.  We  may  well  believe  that,  just  at  the 
moment  when  Bergan's  lonely  life  and  dim  prospects  were 
beginning  to  tell  upon  his  spirits  and  energies,  it  was  not 
without  providential  design  that  an  object  so  inspiring  and 
heartening  as  Astra  Lyte  in  her  studio,  was  placed  before 
his  eyes. 

Nor  was  the  benefit  wholly  on  one  side.  Astra  found 
real  help  and  cheer  in  Bergan's  intelligent  interest  and 
hearty  appreciation.  Moreover,  he  was  quick  to  see  when 
ever  mechanical  contrivance  or  manly  strength  could  come 
to  her  aid ;  and  he  knew  how  to  furnish  both,  in  fit  and 
delicate  measure.  His  perceptions  were  scarcely  less  nice 
than  her  own ;  he  knew  just  when  to  extend  the  helping 
hand,  and  when  to  withdraw  it ;  neither  hesitation  nor 
officiousness  marred  his  aid. 

But   Bergan  was  not   the  only  visitor   at  the  studio. 
Doctor  Remy's  straight-featured,  intellectual  face  was  often 
to  be  seen  there,  with  its  chill  and  satirical  expression  half- 
8* 


178  UOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

obliterated  by  a  look  of  kindly  interest.  And  his  aid  was 
not  less  ready  than  Bergan's,  and,  perhaps,  more  valuable. 
Hints  and  criticisms,  suggested  by  his  profound  anatomical 
and  physiological  knowledge,  often  came  just  in  time  to 
prevent  a  blunder,  or  clinch  a  success. 

So  time  rolled  on,  for  another  month  or  two,  doing 
much  for  the  growth  of  acquaintance,  and  even  a  degree 
of  intimacy,  between  the  artist,  the  lawyer,  and  the  physi 
cian,  thus  thrown  together  under  one  roof,  but  very  little 
for  the  pecuniary  advantage  of  the  two  former.  Astra  had 
received  a  commission  for  a  small  portrait-medallion ; 
Bcrgan  had  been  employed  to  draw  up  a  few  law-papers. 
The  two  often  exchanged  good-humored  jests  upon  the 
manifest  ability  of  the  world  to  get  on  without  their  help. 
But  it  was  a  much  more  serious  matter  for  the  young  man 
than  the  maiden.  Astra  had  understood  that,  Art  being  a 
luxury,  it  must  first  create  the  demand  which  it  meant  to 
supply ;  but  Bergan  knew  well  that  law  was  neither  un 
known  nor  unsought,  in  Berganton.  Courts  were  held, 
and  lawyers  gathered,  there ;  it  was  strange  that  so  little 
of  the  work  came  to  his  hands.  Meanwhile,  the  funds  with 
which  he  had  been  supplied,  on  leaving  home,  were  rapidly 
melting  away;  and  he  was  unwilling  to  apply  for  more, 
both  because  he  desired  to  be  self-dependent,  and  disliked 
to  admit  failure. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  office,  one  afternoon,  dividing  his 
thoughts  between  his  books  and  the  unpromising  state  of 
his  affairs,  when  there  came  a  cautious  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in ! "  he  called  out,  wondering  if  his  long- 
expected  client  were  about  to  present  himself. 

First,  appeared  a  black  hand  and  a  nondescript  hat ; 
next,  a  woolly  head  and  a  wide,  delighted  grin  ;  finally,  a 
loose,  slouching  form,  in  a  shapeless  siiit  of  plantation  gray. 
No  client  was  this.  It  was  only  his  would-be  property, 
Brick. 

Perhaps  Bergan's  disappointment  showed  itself  in  his 


HIDDEN   RICHES.  179 

countenance,  for  the  negro  hastily  began  to  explain  the 
reason  of  his  coming. 

"  Gramma  Rue,  she  sent  me,  massa.  She  don't  feel  right 
smart,  dese  yere  times,  an'  she  say  she  tink  her  days  drawin' 
to  her  close,  an'  she's  mighty  anxious  to  see  you,  massa, 
'fore  she  done  gone.  So  she  tole  me  to  ax  you,  could  n' 
you  come  to  yer  ole  room  in  de  Hall,  some  ob  dese  yere 
ebenins,  jes'  so's  to  gib  her  a  chance  to  talk  wid  you.  Ole 
massa  need  n'  knownothin'  'bout it;  he's  allers  safe  'nough 
in  de  cottage  dem  times.  An'  she  hopes  you'll  hab  de 
kin'ness  to  come,  'case  she's  got  suthin'  bery  partic'lar  to 
say  to  you." 

Bergan  hesitated.  He  could  not  visit  the  old  Hall 
without  reviving  painful  recollections;  besides,  it  did  not 
suit  his  natural  straightforwardness  to  go  thither  in  a  half- 
clandestine  way.  Yet  how  could  he  refuse  the  urgent 
request  of  Maurner  Rue,  weighted  not  only  with  the  prob 
ability  of  coming  death,  but  with  the  consideration  of  her 
long,  faithful,  life  service,  of  his  mother's  family?  And, 
after  all,  there  was  no  great  harm  in  a  visit  to  the  deserted 
Hall,  to  gratify  an  old,  infirm,  attached  dependent.  He 
certainly  need  do  no  skulking  ;  if  he  chanced  to  come  upon 
his  uncle,  he  could  fairly  and  frankly  face  both  him  and  the 
situation. 

Accordingly,  he  directed  his  evening  stroll  toward  Ber 
gan  Hall.  It  was  an  obscure  night  of  late  March.  A  gray 
veil  of  cloud  covered  the  wide  expanse  of  sky,  from  hori 
zon  to  zenith  ;  through  which  only  the  faintest  light  strug 
gled,  to  guide  his  steps  up  the  ruined  avenue.  He  could 
not  but  be  reminded  of  his  first  forlorn  coming  upon  the 
desolate  scene  ;  even  though  he  was  obliged  to  confess 
that,  in  some  respects,  matters  were  mending.  Though  the 
Hall  stood  silent  and  ruinous  as  before,  under  the  sighing 
oaks,  it  was  not  wholly  dark.  An  arch  of  light  shone 
above  the  ^doorway,  and  a  second  gleam  came  invitingly 
from  the  window  of  the  room  that  ho  had  once  called  his 


180  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

own.  The  door,  too,  yielded  readily  to  his  pressure.  At 
this  rate  of  improvement,  a  few  yeai'S  might  easily  trans 
form  the  shadow-haunted  old  ruin  into  a  cheery,  heartwarm 
home. 

It  was  only  a  passing  thought,  and  did  not  slacken  in 
the  least  the  light,  quick  step  with  which  he  ran  up  to  his 
old  room.  Rue  had  done  her  best  to  give  it  a  look  of  home 
and  welcome.  A  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  and  reddened 
the  walls ;  his  favorite  arm-chair  was  drawn  before  it ; 
near  by,  stood  a  round  table,  with  two  tall  candles,  a  few 
scattered  books,  and  a  tray  of  refreshments.  It  all  looked 
strangely  familiar : — there  was  the  secretary  at  which  he 
had  written  his  letters  home ;  there  was  the  book  that  he 
had  been  reading,  with  his  mark  between  the  leaves;  there 
was  the  flute,  so  few  of  whose  long-prisoned  harmonies  he 
had  been  able  to  set  free.  Was  it  really  five  months  since 
he  saw  them  last  ? 

Rue  was  not  in  the  room  when  he  entered  it ;  it  did  not 
suit  her  notion  of  their  respective  positions  to  assume  any 
quality  of  hostess.  But  she  almost  immediately  appeared, 
and  greeted  him  with  tearful  affection  and  respect.  Ber- 
gan  looked  at  her  narrowly,  and  was  pained  to  see  that  her 
tall  form  had  lost  much  of  its  old  erect  stateliness,  and 
that  she  leaned  heavily  on  her  cane  as  she  walked.  Still, 
there  was  no  sign  of  immediate  loosing  of  the  silver  life- 
cord  ;  on  the  whole,  he  thought  that  she  bore  her  heavy 
burden  of  years  wonderfully  well,  and  the  thought  came 
naturally  to  his  lips. 

"  It  may  seem  so,"  replied  the  old  woman,  with  a  slow 
shake  of  her  head,  "  but  I  feel  a  greater  change  than  you 
can  see,  Master  Bergan.  Till  now,  I  never  knew  anything 
about  the  chill  or  the  heaviness  of  age ;  it  has  come  upon  me 
all  at  once.  I  do  not  think,  any  more  than  you  do,  that  the 
end  itself  is  close  at  hand  ;  but  the  beginning  of  the  end 
is  certainly  here.  Let  it  come  as  soon  as  the  Lord  wills ; 
He  knows  I'm  ready.  Only  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that 


HIDDEN   EICIIES.  181 

there's  something  more  for  me  to  do  for  the  family,  before 
I  leave  their  service;  though  I  cannot  rightly  see  what. 
Sometimes  I  am  almost  sure  that  it's  just  to  see  that  you 
are  put  into  your  rightful  place  as  the  master  of  Bergan 
Hall.  If  that  is  all  that  I  am  waiting  for,  I  wish  it  might 
be  done  quickly.  Couldn't  you  make  up  your  mind  to  come 
back  here  now,  if  Master  Harry  would  ask  you  kindly  ?  I 
know  I  can  get  him  to  do  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  could  not,  maumer,"  answered  Bergan,  qui 
etly,  but  very  firmly.  "  I  am  not  yet  in  a  position  to  treat 
with  my  uncle,  on  equal  terms.  And  I  am  less  than  ever 
inclined  to  be  dependent  upon  him,  or  any  one.  Let  me 
beg  you  to  give  yourself  no  further  care  or  thought  in  the 
matter." 

Rue  sighed  deeply.  There  was  something  in  the 
young  man's  tone  that  forestalled  either  argument  or  en 
treaty. 

"  Pardon  an  old  woman's  curiosity,"  she  said,  at  length, 
"but,  are  you  very  much  nearer  to  independence  than  when 
you  left  here  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  am." 

"  Do  you  have  much  to  do,  in  the  way  of  your  profes 
sion?" 

"  I  could  easily  do  more."  There  vvas  a  slight  dryness 
in  Bergan's  intonation,  that  did  not  escape  the  blind  woman's 
quick  car. 

"  Come  with  me,  please ;  I  have  something  to  show  you," 
said  she,  turning  toward  the  door.  "  You  had  better  bring 
a  light,  too ;  you  will  need  it,  though  I  do  not." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  large  room  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hall, — the  bed-chamber  (and  death-chamber,  too)  of  the 
mansion's  departed  owners.  It  was  lined,  from  floor  to 
ceiling,  with  carved  and  panelled  wainscoting.  Rue  went 
straightway  to  one  side,  not  far  from  the  mantel,  ran  her 
fingers  carefully  over  the  dark,  uneven  surface,  and  finally 
pressed  hard  on  a  projecting  point. 


182  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

"  Now,  Master  Bergan,"  said  she,  pointing  to  a  great, 
carved  acorn,  "  take  hold  of  that,  and  push  this  way." 

Bergan  obeyed,  and  a  considerable  portion  of  the  wain 
scoting  slid  easily  to  one  side,  disclosing  a  small  room  or 
closet,  so  artfully  contrived  between  wall  and  chimney,  that 
its  existence  could  never  have  been  suspected.  It  was 
lighted  and  ventilated  by  a  window,  and  furnished  with  an 
armchair  and  a  massive,  old-fashioned  secretary.  Rue 
opened  one  of  the  compartments  of  the  latter,  and  revealed 
several  small  canvas  bags,  which,  it  was  easy  to  see,  con 
tained  gold  and  silver  coin. 

Bergan  was  naturally  a  good  deal  surprised  at  sight  of 
the  hidden  hoard.  It  seemed  scarcely  credible  that  any 
man  in  his  senses  should  care  to  lay  up  such  idle  store  of  the 
precious  metals,  which  might  otherwise  be  profitably  em 
ployed  in  an  easy  process  of  self-augmentation.  Still,  he 
knew  enough  of  his  uncle's  surly  and  suspicious  character, 
and  of  his  distrust  of  banks  (which  he  had  once  heard  him 
characterize  as  "  ready  sinks  for  fools'  money  "),  to  leave 
only  room  for  a  passing  wonder. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here,  Master  Bergan,"  said  Rue, 
solemnly,  "  because  this  secret  rightly  belongs  to  you,  as  the 
future  master  of  the  Hall.  It  is  the  duty  of  each  owner  to 
make  it  known  to  his  heir,  on  his  deathbed,  or  earlier.  The 
place  was  contrived  by  Sir  Harry,  because  there  was  some 
thing  like  it  in  the  English  Bergan  Hall,  which  served  for 
a  hiding  place  for  men  and  women  in  troublous  times ; 
and  he  provided  for  the  keeping  and  handing  down  of  the 
secret,  in  the  same  way  as  it  had  been  done  there.  It  was 
only  to  be  known  to  the  owner  and  the  heir." 

"Then  how  came  you  to  know  it?"  asked  Bergan. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  When  the  third  Harry  Bergan  was 
at  the  point  of  death,  his  heir  was  in  Europe.  The  person 
whom  he  most  trusted,  in  the  world,  was  his  body-servant, 
Cato.  He  gave  the  secret  to  him,  to  be  kept  till  the  heir's 
return.  Cato  was  my  great-great-great  grandfather.  He 


HIDDEN   RICHES.  183 

thought  the  same  thing  might  happen  again,  and  the  secret 
be  lost ;  so,  on  his  deathbed,  he  told  it  to  his  son,  and  the 
son  told  it  to  his  son,  and  so  on,  till  my  father,  who  had  no 
son,  told  it  to  me.  So,  you  see,  the  secret  has  run  down  in 
the  black  blood  alongside  of  the  white  blood,  and  been 
kept  just  as  sacredly.  But  the  white  blood  has  never 
known  it  till  now ;  when  I  tell  it  to  you,  because  I  h#ve  no 
child  living,  and  Brick  is  still  too  young  to  be  trusted  with 
such  a  matter." 

"  What  a  strange  circumstance  !  "  said  Bergan,  deeply 
interested.  "  Has  the  place  ever  been  used  except  as  a 
storeroom  for  valuables  ?  " 

"  Only  once,  to  my  knowledge.  During  the  Revolution, 
Colonel  Bergan  was  hidden  here  some  days,  when  a  party 
of  British  were  quartered  on  the  premises, — some  of  the 
same  party  that  Sergeant  Jasper  afterwards  captured." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  while  Bergan  silently  looked 
round  the  narrow  walls ;  and  then  she  resumed. 

"  You  see  what  nse  Master  Harry  makes  of  the  place. 
And  perhaps  you  know  him  well  enough  to  understand 
that  he  will  never  tell  any  one  where  he  keeps  his  money, 
until  his  breath  is  almost  out  of  his  body.  That  is  why  I 
brought  you  here.  I  cannot  expect  to  outlive  him;  and  if 
he  should  die  suddenly,  or  with  the  secret  only  half-way  off 
his  tongue,  it  would  die  with  him." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  done  well,"  said  Bergan,  after  a 
moment  of  thought.  "  Certainly,  I  shall  regard  it  only  as 
a  trust  for  the  future  owner  of  the  Hall,  whoever  he  may 
be." 

"  He  will  be  none  other  than  yourself,"  returned  Rue, 
decidedly.  "  I  only  wish  I  were  as  certain  of  the  time,  as 
I  am  of  the  fact.  And  now,"  she  continued,  pointing  to 
the  bags  of  coin,  "  take  as  much  of  that  as  you  need. 
Master  Harry  will  never  miss  it ;  I  don't  think  he  ever  counts 
it  over,  he  is  so  sure  that  it  is  safe  here.  And  it  will  all  be 
your  own  some  day." 


184  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

"What  do  you  mean!"  exclaimed  Bergan,  angrily, 
starting  back.  "  Do  you  take  me  for  a  thief?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  Master  Bergan,  of  course  not,"  an 
swered  Rue,  earnestly  and  deprecatingly,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  "  It  is  only  because  I  know  that  it  will  be 
yours  in  time  ;  and  as  Master  Harry  does  not  need  it  nor  use 
it,  why  shouldn't  you  have  the  good  of  it  now,  when  you 
need  it  more  than  you  ever  may  again  ?  If  it  suits  you 
better,  take  it  as  a  loan,  and  pay  it  back,  when  you  are 
able." 

"  No !  no ! "  said  Bergan,  turning  hurriedly  away,  "  it 
is  impossible.  You  mean  kindly,  I  know,  Maumer  Rue, 
but  you  do  not  seem  to  understand  the  facts.  I  have  no 
more  right  to  it  than  any  stranger;  I  could  not  touch  it,  to 
save  me  from  starving.  Come,  let  us  go !  I  have  seen 
enough." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Rue,  after  a  pause, 
"and  I  am  a  foolish  old  woman.  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  my  dear  Miss  Eleanor's  son  was  pinching  himself,  in 
the  least,  when  there  was  so  much  idle  gold  in  the  old 
house  ;  but  I  see  you  are  right,  sir ;  and  I  beg  your  pardon." 

It  was  not  without  a  sense  of  relief  that  Bergan  soon 
after  closed  the  door  of  the  old  Hall  behind  him,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  cool,  fresh  night  air.  Not  that  he 
had  suffered  any  real  trial  of  temptation, — his  principles 
were  too  true  and  firm  for  that ; — but  there  had  been  some 
thing  in  the  whole  sombre  scene — the  deserted,  death- 
scented  chamber,  the  concealed  closet,  the  hoarded  gold — 
that  had  left  him  with  a  sense  of  oppression,  which  kept  its 
hold  of  him  all  the  way  home. 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  his  office.  To  his  surprise, 
it  was. not  empty.  A  gentleman  was  sitting  by  the  table-, 
with  a  pile  of  papers  before  him,  and  a  weary,  discontented 
face,  as  if  his  waiting  had  outlasted  his  patience. 

Bergan's  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  He  divined  that  his 
long-looked-for  client  was  before  him  ! 


vm. 

THE   WIND   CHANGES. 

"  /"N  OOD  evening,  Squire,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  deep 
\~T~  voice, — a  voice  that  would  have  been  gruff,  but  for 
the  melodizing  influences  of  the  soft  southern  cli 
mate.  "  My  name  is  Corlew — John  Corlew,  of  Williston.  I 
came  to  see  if  you  would  consent  to  take  charge  of  a  case 
of  mine,  which  is  to  be  called  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  repeated  Bergan,  in  much  surprise. 
"  That  is  very  short  notice." 

"  I  know  it.  But  it  is  of  the  greatest  consequence  to 
me  that  the  case  should  be  tried  at  this  time,  and  not  car 
ried  over  to  another  term.  It  was  in  the  hands  of  Squire 
Fielder,  one  of  our  Williston  lawyers;  but  he  was  taken 
sick  this  afternoon, — fell  down  in  court,  some  brain  diffi 
culty  or  other, — and  is  forbidden  by  the  physicians  to  do  a 
thing.  So  I  inquired  for  a  lawyer  that  hadn't  got  his 
hands  full  of  business,  and  somebody  mentioned  you.  I 
remembered  your  name ;  I  happened  to  be  North  five  years 
ago,  and  heard  .your  Commencement  speech,  and  knew 
what  sort  of  a  reputation  you  graduated  with  ;  so  I  quickly 
made  up  my  mind  that  you  were  the  man  for  my  need. 
I've  brought  all  the  papers, — Squire  Fielder's  notes  and  all. 
— he  couldn't  well  do  less  than  give  them  to  me,  under  the 
circumstances.  I  understand  matters  pretty  well  myself; 
and  we've  got  the  night  before  us.  If  you'll  undertake  to 
master  the  case  by  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  I  am 
willing  to  put  it  in  your  hands." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Bergan,  after  a  brief  consid 
eration. 


186  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

Mr.  Corlew  immediately  began  to  open  and  sort  his 
papers ;  Bergan  brought  writing  materials,  drew  his  chair 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  and  bent  all  the  powers 
of  his  mind  to  the  hard  task  before  him.  It  was  an  action 
for  ejectment,  involving  trial  of  title,  and  writh  the  usual 
mixed  and  intricate  character  of  such  things ;  interwoven, 
too,  with  a  pathetic  story  of  misfortune.  Bergan  patiently 
examined  and  questioned ;  Mr.  Corlew  intelligently  ex 
plained  and  answered.  The  investigation  was  scarce  half 
concluded,  when  Bergan  quietly  pushed  Mi*.  Fielder's 
notes  aside. 

"  They  do  not  help  me,"  he  explained,  in  answer  to  a 
glance  from  Mr.  Corlew.  "In  my  judgment,  he  has  mis 
taken  the  point  on  which  the  case  1'eally  hangs.  At  all 
events,  I  shall  do  better  to  manage  it  in  my  own  way." 

Midnight  came  and  went  on  silent  feet;  the  "wee, 
sma'  hours,"  sacred  to  love  rather  than  law,  hastened,  one 
after  another,  to  join  their  numerous  kin  in  the  misty  vale 
of  the  Heretofore  ;  the  stars  went  out  like  spent  lamps ; 
the  dim  night-silence  began  to  stir  with  vague  premonitions 
of  light  and  sound  ;  finally,  gray  dawn  looked  solemnly  in 
through  the  windows.  Then  Bergan  lifted  his  head,  and 
pushed  back  the  hair  from  his  brow. 

"  Now  leave  me,"  he  said  to  his  companion,  with  un 
wonted  sombreness.  "  The  rest  must  be  done  by  myself. 
I  will  meet  you  at  the  court-house,  in  good  time." 

He  made  an  almost  imperceptible  pause.  Then,  looking 
Mr.  Corlew  full  in  the  face,  he  said,  in  a  tone  half-assertive, 
half-questioning ; — 

"You  wish  to  siuceed  in  this  suit  ?" 

Mr.  Corlew's  eyes  fell  under  his  penetrating  gaze.  "  Of 
course  I  do,"  he  answered  a  little  surlily.  "  What  else  am 
I  here  for?" 

Bergan  seemed  to  muse  for  a  moment.  "  Well,"  said 
he,  at  length,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  recalls  his  thoughts 
from  an  episodical  flight  to  the  main  subject,  "  I  think  you 


THE   WIND   CHANGES.  187 

may  reasonably  expect  success,  if  your  witnesses  testify  as 
is  here  set  down.  The  law  is  clearly  in  your  favor." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  returned  Mr.  Corlew,  heartily. 
Yet  he  looked  slightly  annoyed,  none  the  less ;  and  his 
"  Good  morning,"  as  he  went  out,  was  a  little  stiff. 

Beroran  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  folded  his  arms,  and 

O  99 

knitted  his  brow.  He  looked  like  a  man  assailed  by  some 
miserable  doubt  or  "suspicion,  which  yet  he  is  half-inclined 
to  regard,  as  illegitimate. 

"  It  is  a  necessity  of  my  profession,"  he  muttered,  at 
last ;  and,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he  tore  himself  free  from 
the  teasing  phantom,  and  addressed  himself  anew  to  his 
work. 

There  is  no  need  to  burden  these  pages  with  the  tedious 
formalities  of  a  trial  at  law.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  Bergan 
conducted  the  case  with  an  ease  and  ability  that  surprised 
his  legal  associates.  They  had  looked  for  some  nervous 
ness,  some  hesitation,  some  solicitude,  some  awkwardness, 
in  the  manner  of  the  young  legal  debutant ;  they  could 
detect  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  made  his  opening  speech 
with  consummate  clearness  and  composure  ;  and  he  exam 
ined  and  cross-examined  witnesses,  quoted  authorities,  took 
exceptions,  and  made  points,  with  a  quiet  ease,  and  even,  at 
times,  with  a  touch  of  listlessness,  that  argued  excellent 
training  and  pi'ofound  knowledge. 

Perhaps  his  quietude  of  manner  was  the  more  perfect, 
that  a  slight  cloud  hung  on  his  brow,  all  through  the  two 
days  of  the  trial ;  though  his  observers  were  too  little 
acquainted  with  the  wonted  expression  of  his  face  to  dis 
cover  it.  Not  till  he  rose  to  make  his  final  speech  did  the 
shadow  lift.  Then,  indeed,  the  spectators  noticed  a  change. 
He  had  spoken  but  a  few  sentences,  when  his  eyes  kindled, 
his  brow  cleared,  his  voice  gathered  fulness  and  melody,  he 
forgot  himself  and  his  doubt  in  the  glow  of  an  irresistible 
inspiration,  in  the  glad  exercise  of  a  natural  gift  of  oratory 
so  wondrous,  so  unexpected,  and  so  potent,  that  court  and 


188  HOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

spectators  were  alike  taken  by  storm.  Only  in  dim  tradi 
tion  had  such  a  speech  ever  been  heard  in  that  court  room, 
— so  fluent,  so  anhnated,  so  skilfully  throwing  an  ideal 
grace  around  dry,  bare  legal  facts,  without  dimming  their 
outline  or  destroying  their  logical  connection.  People 
held  their  breath  to  listen,  unwilling  to  lose  one  delicate 
shade  of  thought,  one  fit,  luminous  expression.  Two  or 
three  times,  the  judge  was  forced  to  suppress  outbursts  of 
applause,  in  which,  nevertheless,  his  pleased  and  interested 
face  concurred ;  and  when  Bergan  took  his  seat,  gray- 
headed  lawyers  stretched  their  hands  across  the  table  in 
hearty  congratulation. 

A  verdict  for  his  client  was  almost  immediately  ren 
dered.  Then  he  stepped  out  into  the  crowd,  to  be  met  on 
all  sides  by  extended  hands  and  enthusiastic  compliments. 
People  that  had  always  studiously  avoided  him,  now  sought 
to  catch  his  eye;  gentlemen  who  had  never  vouchsafed  him 
more  than  a  stiff  nod,  now  waited  to  give  him  a  friendly 
hand-grasp  and  a  few  congratulatory  words.  One  of  the 
magnates  of  the  neighborhood  publicly  stamped  him,  as  it 
were,  with  the  seal  of  his  high  approbation,  by  engaging 
him  for  a  few  moments  in  conversation,  arid  then  parting 
from  him  with  an  intimation  that  he  might  expect  an  early 
invitation  to  dinner. 

Turning  away  from  the  dog-day  smile  of  this  personage, 
— late  and  sultry, — Bergan  encountered  the  meaning  gaze 
of  a  pair  of  blear  eyes. 

"  Sudden  change  of  weather,"  remarked  Dick  Causton, 
dryly.  "  '  it  never  rains  but  it  pours.'  You  are  in  a  heavy 
shower,  Mr.  Arling." 

And  with  unwonted  consideration,  Dick  waited  till 
Bergan  had  passed  on,  before  he  muttered,  "Tn  picciol 
tempo  passa  ogni  gran  pioygia, — a  heavy  shower  is  soon 
over." 

Dr.  Remy  came  next.  "  I  never  sing  in  chorus,"  said 
he,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and  putting  his  hands  behind 


THE   WIND    CHANGES.  189 

him  ;  "  I  shall  keep  my  compliments  for  a  day  of  dearth. 
But  what  a  weathercock  is  public  opinion  !  " 

Yet  the  change  was  not  altogether  so  sudden  and  radi 
cal  as  it  appeared.  Bergan's  upright,  independent  course 
of  conduct,  so  quietly  persisted  in,  through  all  these  months, 
despite  every  discouragement,  had  at  last  begun  to  tell 
iipon  the  prejudices  of  the  community.  Mrs.  Lyte's  warm 
advocacy  and  indignant  protest,  in  her  small  circle,  had  also 
had  its  weight.  Probably  both  would  have  availed  much 
earlier,  but  for  the  curiously  infelicitous  language  in 
which  Dr.  Remy  had  all  along  chosen  to  couch  his  respon 
ses  to  such  persons  as  had  approached  him  in  relation  to 
Bergan's  character  and  habits. 

"  As  talented  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,"  he  replied  to 
one  inquirer, — "  and  as  deep  a  one.  Ah  !  he  knows  well 
what  he's  about !  " 

"  Sober  ?  "  he  answered  another, — "  certainly  ;  as  sober 
as  an  anchorite.  I  hope  he  will  keep  -so." 

"  Mr.  Arling  is  my  neighbor  and  friend,  as  friendship 
goes,"  he  said  to  another ;  "  I  neither  make,  nor  listen 
to,  derogatory  remarks  about  him.  If  you  want  confirma 
tion  for  your  prejudice,  go  elsewhere.  I  am  not  in  that  line.'' 

Intentionally  or  not,  Dr.  Remy's  cool  cynicism  rather 
damaged  than  helped  Bergan's  cause. 

Nevertheless,  the  steadfast  testimony  of  his  upright  life 
remained,  and  could  not  be  Avholly  ignored.  The  feeling 
was  fast  becoming  general  that  the  young  man  deserved 
somewhat  better  at  the  hands  of  the  community  than  he 
had  received.  And  the  feeling  would  doubtless  have  man 
ifested  itself  in  good  time,  and  with  due  caution,  if  Ber 
gan's  imexampled  success  in  the  court-room  had  not  fairly 
dazzled  out  of  sight  the  last  lingering  shadow  of  prejudice, 
and  caused  a  popular  reaction  toward  the  other  extreme  of 
enthusiastic  admiration  and  approval, — a  reaction  all  the 
stronger  because  spurred  on  by  a  lurking  sense  of  past  in 
justice. 


190  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

Moreover,  the  little,  sleepy  town,  whose  intellectual 
brilliants  were  few,  and  not  of  the  first  water,  naturally 
felt  that  it  could  not  afford  to  ignore  the  fine  talent  which 
had  so  suddenly  blazed  out  in  its  midst,  and  which  might 
be  regarded  as,  in  some  sense,  of  its  own  creation. 

"He  really  belongs  to  us,  you  know,"  remai'ked  one 
townsman  proudly  to  another.  "He  comes  of  the  Bergans 
of  Bei-gan  Hall,  on  the  mother's  side, — good  old  aristocratic 
stock.  And  he's  an  honor  to  it !  " 

And  so,  as  has  been  said  before,  Bergan's  exit  from  the 
court-room  was  a  scene  of  triumph  that  might  easily  have 
turned  an  older  head,  and  quickened  the  beating  of  a  chiller 
heart. 

But  Bergan  took  it  all  quietly,  gravely, — almost  indiffer 
ently.  The  cloud  had  settled  back  upon  his  brow,  and 
never  stirred  for  any  compliment,  or  congratulation,  or 
friendliness.  Most  persons  attributed  it  to  wounded  pride, 
not  yet  healed.  In  the  midst  of  the  ovation,  they  believed 
that  he  kept  a  rankling  remembrance  of  the  coldness  and 
neglect  which  had  preceded  it.  One  observer  only,  a  little 
clearer  eyed  than  the  rest,  said  to  him  : — 

"  You  look  tired." 

"  And  well  he  may  !  "  responded  Mr.  Corlew,  standing 
by  with  a  face  of  unalloyed  satisfaction.  "  He  never  saw 
the  case  until  evening  before  last ;  and  he  has  not  slept  for 
two  nights." 

There  was  another,  and  a  stronger,  burst  of  admiration, 
mingled  with  wonder  ;  but  the  complacent,  satisfied  tone  of 
Mr.  Corlew's  voice  only  deepened  the  shadow  on  Bergan's 
brow.  Quickly  extricating  himself  from  both  crowd  and 
client,  he  walked  swiftly  home,  meditating,  as  he  went,  upon 
the  seeming  churlishness  of  human  existence,  in  that  it 
never  gives  us  what  we  want,  or  gives  it  only  in  such  way 
and  shape  as  to  neutralize  its  sweetness. 

What,  then,  was  the  drop  of  bitterness  in  his  cup  of 
triumph  ? 


THE   WIND   CHANGES.  191 

Not  the  paltry  pride  that  had  been  attributed  to  him, 
nor  yet  the  depressing  reaction  that  comes  after  excitement, 
but  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  he  had  helped  to  do  an  injus 
tice.  He  had  discovered, — or  seemed  to  discover, — as  the 
intricacies  of  the  recent  case  had  unfolded  themselves  before 
him,  that  law  and  justice  stood  on  opposite  sides  of  it.  Of 
his  client's  legal  right  to  the  property  in  dispute,  admitting 
his  statements  to  be  true,  there  seemed  to  be  no  question ;  but 
of  his  moral  right  to  it,  as  well  as  of  his  own  personal  integ 
rity,  and  that  of  his  principal  witness,  Bergan  had  grave 
doubts.  And  these  doubts  had  followed  him,  and  planted 
a  heavy  footstep  on  his  conscience,  all  the  way  down  through 
the  trial.  For  he  was  still  young,  his  personal  conscience 
tender,  and  his  professional  one  undeveloped.  His  duty  as 
a  man,  and  his  duty  as  a  lawyer,  had  not  yet  distinctly 
separated  themselves  into  opposing  segments. 

So,  while  the  whole  town  was  ringing  with  the  fame  of 

7  O  O 

his  successful  legal  debut,  he  sat  moodily  in  his  office,  a  prey 
to  troubled  and  half- regretful  thought,  until  Sleep,  so  long 
defrauded  of  her  rights,  stole  upon  him  in  his  chair,  and 
held  him  fast  prisoned  in  her  soft  embrace. 


IX. 

THE  FIKST  LINKS   OF   A   CHAIN. 

I  DON'T  beg  pardon  for  disturbing  you,"  said  Doctor 
Remy,  giving  the  sleeper  a  vigorous  shake.  "  You 
are  in  as  fair  a  way  to  catch  your  death  of  cold,  a 
your  worst  enemy  could  wish  you  to  be." 

Bergan  slowly  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  vacantly 
around  him.  The  doctor's  words,  though  they  had  reached 
his  ears,  had  not  penetrated  to  his  understanding.  As  yet, 
he  was  but  half  cognizant  of  his  whereabouts,  not  at  all  of 
his  circumstances. 

"  Come,  up  with  you ! "  persisted  the  doctor,  "  and 
take  a  turn  round  the  room,  to  get  the  chill  out  of  your 
blood.  Man  alive!  what  were  you  thinking  of,  to  go  to 
sleep  before  that  window,  with  such  a  damp  wind  blowing 
in?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  to,"  responded  Bergan,  drowsily.  And 
his  eyes  closed  again. 

"  Did  not  mean  to  ! "  repeated  Doctor  Remy,  in  a  tone 
of  ineffable  contempt.  "  You  might  at  least  have  vouch 
safed  me  a  newer  excuse :  that  is  worn  threadbare.  It  has 
served  the  whole  human  race,  from  Eve  over  her  apple, 
down  to  Cathie  over  her  last  broken  doll.  Nobody  '  means ' 
to  do  anything.  Except  me — I  '  mean '  to  wake  you  up." 
And  the  doctor  gave  Bergan  another  uncompromising 
shake. 

"  It  is  so  good  to  sleep ! "  remonstrated  the  young  man, 
in  the  same  drowsy  tone. 

"  It  is  so  good  to  have  the  rheumatism,  or  that  cream 
of  delights  known  hereabout  as  the  broken-bone  fever !  " 


THE   FIRST   LINKS   OF    A   CHAIN.  193 

returned  the  doctor,  with  cool  irony.  "  However,"  he 
added,  indifferently,  turning  away,  "  chacun  d  son  gotit" 

"You  surely  do  not  mean  to  leave  him,  in  that  way, 
Doctor,"  said  a  rebuking  voice,  beneath  the  window. 
Miss  Lyte,  fastening  up  a  rosebush,  in  the  dusk  outside, 
had  heard  the  whole. 

"  Certainly  not,  if  it  pleases  you  to  wish  otherwise," 
replied  the  doctor,  gallantly. 

And  returning  to  the  charge,  Doctor  Remy  did  not 
remit  his  efforts  until  he  had  gotten  the  half-vexed  young 
man  upon  his  feet,  and  forced  him  to  pace  two  or  three 
times  up  and  down  the  office.  Thereupon  Bergan  was  fain 
to  avow  that  his  limbs  were  stiff  and  sore,  and  he  had  no 
mind  for  further  exercise. 

"  Just  as  I  expected,"  said  the  doctor,  calmly. 

Without  further  words,  he  mai'ched  Bergan  off  to  bed, 
and  did  not  let  him  alone,  until,  by  dint  of  various  outward 
and  inward  applications,  he  had  restored  natural  warmth 
and  circulation  to  his  chilled,  benumbed  frame.  In  doing 
this,  the  young  man  was  effectually  roused ;  and  memory 
and  thought  came  back  with  consciousness. 

"  Doctor,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "  I  almost  envy  you  your 
profession." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because,  as  you  told  me  at  our  first  meeting,  your 
duty  is  always  plainly  one  thing — to  save  life." 

"  Humph  !  it  seems  to  me  that  yours  is  equally  plain — 
to  save  your  client." 

"  What !  whether  his  cause  be  right  or  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  save  life,  whether  it  be  good  or  evil — a  thief  s  or  a 
saint's." 

Bergan  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  felt  the  sophistry, 
but  could  not,  on  the  instant,  detect  wherein  it  lay.  He 
allowed  himself  to  be  diverted  from  the  main  question  by 
a  side  issue. 

"  You  say  that  you  save  life,"  said  he,  "  but  do  you  feel 
9 


19  i  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

that  it  is  really  you  ?  Are  you  never  conscious  of  a  power 
above  you,  without  whose  help  your  efforts  would  avail 
nothing?" 

"  Granted,  for  the  sake  of  argument,"  replied  Doctor 
Remy,  composedly.  "  Then  you  may  believe  that  it  is  not 
your  efforts  which  gain  a  cause,  but  the  '  power  above,'  of 
which  you  speak." 

It  is  not  often  that  a  side  issue  leads  so  directly  back  to 
the  main  point  as  in  this  instance,  thanks  to  Doctor  Remy's 
mode  of  treating  it.  "  I  see,"  said  Bergan,  musingly,  "  the 
difference  is  in  the  intent.  Of  course,  God  does  decide  the 
event,  or  consequence, — that  is  beyond  us.  He  can  frus 
trate  our  best  efforts,  or  crown  them  with  success,  as  He 
pleases.  Our  business,  then,  is  with  motives — and  aims — 
and  means."  (The  last  clauses  came  slowly,  and  in  the 
natural,  if  not  the  logical,  order  of  thought.)  "  It  is  only 
after  we  have  made  sure  that  those  three  are  right,"  he 
went  on,  "that  we  are  freed  from  responsibility,  and  can 
comfortably  leave  results  to  God." 

"  All  very  fine,"  returned  Doctor  Remy,  coolly.  "  But 
it  seems  to  me  that  our  motives,  means,  and  aims  (that  is 
to  say,  yours  and  mine)  are  the  same.  Motive,  love  of  life; 
means,  a  profession ;  aim,  money, — which  though  in  itself 
only  a  means,  is  the  most  convenient  representative  of  all 
that  it  will  buy;  that  is,  all  that  supports  life,  and  en 
hances  its  enjoyments." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  serious,"  replied  Bergan,  gravely. 
"I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  any  man — much  less  a 
man  with  your  talent,  culture,  and  opportunities  for  bene 
fit  ing  his  fellows — could  be  satisfied  with  so  poor  an  ambi 
tion  as  that." 

Doctor  Remy  slightly  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  My  dear 
fellow,"  said  he,  "  if  you  do  not  follow  your  profession  for 
the  sake  of  the  money  that  you  expect  it  to  bring  you, 
what  do  you  follow  it  for  ?  " 

"Money  is  one  object,  of  coui'se,"  answered   Bergan, 


THE   FIRST   LINKS    OF   A   CHAIN.  195 

"  but  I  hope  it  is  not  the  only  one,  nor  even  the  chief  one. 
When  my  mind  takes  a  leap  into  the  future,  it  is  not  so 
much  fees  that  I  think  of,  as  wrongs  to  be  redressed,  and 
rights  to  be  protected,  and  influence  to  be  gained  and  exer 
cised, — yes,  and  fame  and  independence  to  be  won." 

"All  very  good  things,"  returned  Doctor  Remy,  smil 
ing  ;  "  and  all  very  dependent  on  those  same  fees,  of  which 
you  think  so  little.  Without  money,  you  will  not  do  much 
for  right,  nor  against  wrong ;  neither  can  you  be  independ 
ent,  or  famous,  or  influential." 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  rejoined  Bergan,  smiling. 
"  Certainly,  it  was  not  his  riches  that  made  Diogenes  in 
dependent.  Neither  does  the  name  of  Howard  borrow 
any  of  its  lustre  from  gold.  Nor — to  come  down  to  our  own 
time — is  Mr.  Islay  influential  on  account  of  his  wealth." 

"  Mr.  Islay  influential ! "  repeated  Doctor  Remy,  con- 
temptuously.  "  In  what  way,  let  me  ask  ?  " 

"In  a  hundred  ways.  Every  week,  his  words,  his 
thoughts,  go  into  scores  of  hearts  and  homes,  for  warning, 
for  comfort,  for  inspiration ;  and  reappear  constantly  in 
human  lives.  Certain  sentences  of  his  last  Sunday's  ser 
mon  have  been  ringing  in  my  ears  all  day.  And  only 
three  or  four  days  ago,  Miss  Lyte,  tinder  the  influence  of 
that  same  suggestive  discourse,  asked  me  how  far  I  thought 
one  was  justified  in  a  purely  negative  use  of  a  talent, — that 
is,  in  merely  refraining  from  doing  harm,  rather  than  trying 
actively  to  do  good.  And  these  are  only  two  examples, 
.you  see,  where  there  are  doubtless  many." 

"  Priests  easily  influence  women,"  said  the  doctor, 
scornfully. 

"  Women ! "  exclaimed  Bergan,  stretching  out  a  stal- 
wart  arm  toward  the  doctor.  "  Are  not  those  the  muscles 
and  sinews  of  a  man  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Doctor,  laughing,  "  I 
had  forgotten  what  was  the  first  of  your  two  examples. 
Still,  that  sort  of  influence  would  sever  suffice  for  me.  If 


196  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   COEDS. 

I  cared  for  anything  of  the  kind,  it  would  be  for  power, — 
direct,  absolute  power  over  men's  acts  and  lives.  But  us 
that  belongs  only  to  kings  and  generals,  I  am  content  to  do 
with—  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  Well,  what  ?  "  said  Bergan. 

"  Wealth — when  I  get  it,"  answered  the  doctor. 
"  Wealth,  and  what  it  brings ;  ease,  leisure,  unlimited 
opportunity  and  means  for  the  cultivation  of  the  intellect." 

"The  intellect,  then,  is  your  final  object,  your  ultimate 
good  ?  "  said  Bergan. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  the  one  thing  which  distinguishes  man  from 
the  brutes,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  With  the  soul,"  rejoined  Bergan. 

"  A  word  without  an  idea,"  returned  the  doctor, — 
"  unless,  indeed,  you  mean  to  apply  it  to  that  life-prin 
ciple,  which  belongs  to  plants  and  animals,  as  well  as 
men." 

Bergan  looked  amazed.  "  Do  you  really  make  no  dis 
tinction,"  he  asked,  "  between  mind  and  soul  ?  " 

"  None.     To  me,  they  are  synonymous  terms." 

"  Is  it  from  the  intellect,  then,"  said  Bergan,  "  that  the 
moral  sense  comes  ?  " 

Doctor  Remy's  lips  opened  for  a  reply,  but  closed  again 
in  silence.  And,  knowing  that  he  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a 
rejoinder,  Bergan  suspected  that  the  words  so  suddenly  cut 
off  from  utterance  were  of  a  franker  character  than  his 
second  thought  approved.  Before  his  less  impromptu 
answer  was  ready,  Bergan,  following  out  some  rapid,  unex 
plained  train  of  thought,  asked ; — 

"  Doctor,  did  you  ever  feel  remorse  ?  " 

"  Never.     That  is  a  disease.     I  am  in  health." 

"  But,  doctor,"  persisted  Bergan,  "  should  you  call  that 
a  healthy  body,  which  was  incapable  of  feeling  pain  ? 
Should  you  not  rather  say  that  it  was  paralyzed,  or  ossi- 
ik-d?" 


THE   FIKST   LINKS   OF   A   CHAIN.  197 

"Just  as  I  should  say  that  it  was  inflamed,  if  mere 
pressure  caused  it  acute  pain,"  answered  Doctor  Remy. 

Bergan  looked  unconvinced. 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  I  never  feel  regret,"  explained  the 
doctor.  "  I  have  often  been  angry  with  myself  for  having 
been  'guilty  of  a  mistake." 

"  A  mistake,"  repeated  Bergan,  doubtfully.  "  Do  you 
mean  a  sin  ?  " 

"I  will  not  be  particular  about  terms,"  replied  Doctor 
Remy,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  But  I  prefer  my  own,  as 
better  expressing  my  ideas." 

Bergan  looked  a  little  bewildered.  The  doctor  again 
condescended  to  explain. 

"  Like  you,"  said  he,  "  I  hold  it  to  be  every  man's  duty 
to  make  the  most  of  his  life, — his  talents,  time,  and  health. 
If  he  so  act  as  to  hinder  the  development,  or  impair  the 
value  and  efficiency,  of  any  of  these,  does  it  make  any 
practical  difference  whether  we  call  it  a  sin  or  a  mistake  ?  " 

"None,"  answered  Bergan,  with  scorn  that  he  could 
not  repress;  "except  that  it  narrows  everything, — aim, 
responsibility,  hope,  faith,  desire,  and  fulfilment, — down  to 
man's  miserable  self! " 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  coldly,  "bring  me'  the  most 
signal  example  of  heroism,  disinterestedness,  charity, — 
what  you  like, — that  you  can  find ;  and  I  will  point  out  to 
yoii  a  plain  germ  of  selfishness  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  What  of  that  ?  "  replied  Bei-gan,  with  kindling  eyes. 
"  Because  we  can  never  wholly  get  rid  of  self,  in  this  lower 
life,  does  it  therefore  follow  that  we  must  concentrate  our 
thoughts  and  aims  upon  it?  Must  we  forever  deny  our 
selves  the  ennobling,  elevating,  softening  influence  of  a 
duty  and  a  hope  outside  of  ourselves;  an  object  of  affec 
tion,  trust,  and  desire,  higher  than  ourselves  ?  " 

Bergan  reached  out  for  a  book,  found  a  marked  passage, 
and  read  aloud. 

"  '  Take  the  example  of  a  dog,  and  mark  what  a  gener- 


198  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    C.'-RDS. 

osity  and  courage  he  will  put  on,  when  he  finds  himself 
maintained  by  a  man,  who,  to  him,  is  instead  of  a  God,  or 
inelior  natura  /  which  courage  is  manifestly  such  as  that 
creature,  without  that  confidence  in  a  nature  better  than 
his  own,  could  never  attain.  So  man,  when  he  resteth  and 
assureth  himself  upon  Divine  protection  and  favor,  gather- 
eth  a  force  and  faith  which  human  nature  would  not  other 
wise  obtain.' " 

"  I  deny — "  began  Dr.  Remy,  with  his  wonted  audacity. 
But,  at  this  moment,  his  office-boy,  Scipio,  thrust  his  woolly 
head  in  the  door  with  the  laconic  intimation, — 

"  Sent  for,  massa.     Drefful  hurry." 

"  And  in  good  time,"  laughed  the  doctor.  "  I  was  for 
getting  my  professional  duty  to  you, — which  was,  to  have 
left  you  long  ago  to  the  sleep  which  you  so  much  need,  and 
which  you  may  now  safely  and  profitably  take.  Good 
night." 

For  some  moments,  Bergan  lay  thinking  over  the  con 
versation.  Never  had  Dr.  Remy's  low  and  limited  notions 
of  life  been  so  nakedly  presented  to  his  abhorrent  gaze.  A 
certain  distrust  and  dread  awoke  within  him,  accompanied 
by  a  chill  creeping  of  the  flesh,  as  at  something  not  alto 
gether  human.  It  impressed  him  that  there  was  a  dark  and 
sinister  peculiai'ity  about  this  man,  with  the  rarely  culti 
vated  intellect  and  the  inert  affections, — this  man  whom 
he  had  so  long  called  his  friend,  and  who,  so  far  as  he  knew, 
had  not  ill  deserved  the  name ; — a  peculiarity  that  could 
not  fail  to  be  pernicious  to  lives  and  characters  too  inti 
mately  connected  with  him.  Running  over  in  his  mind  the 
whole  course  of  their  acquaintance,  he  could  not  remember 
ever  to  have  heard  the  doctor  give  utterance  to  one  lofty 
aspiration,  one  purely  benign  impulse,  one  word  of  hearty 
sympathy  or  generous  affection.  His  opinions  and  beliefs 
were  chill  products  of  the  intellect,  unwarmed  by  any  glow 
of  the  affections,  unpurified  by  any  strict  assay  of  consci 
ence.  And  Bergan  was  just  beginning  to  discover  that, 


THE    FIRST    LINKS    OF    A    CHAIN.  199 

while  pretending  to  great  breadth  and  depth,  they  were 
really  narrow,  because  limited  to  life  and  earth,  and  shallow, 
because  never  penetrating  below  or  above  the  reach  of  the 
human  intellect,  when  his  thoughts  suddenly  began  to  grow 
vague  and  dim,  as  if  seen  through  a  mist,  and  the  next 
moment,  he  was  sound  asleep. 

Meanwhile,  much  to  his  surprise,  as  well  as  gratification, 
Doctor  Remy  was  hastening  toward  Bergan  Hall.  Maumer 
Rue  being  suddenly  seized  with  alarming  symptoms,  the 
Major's  head  man,  Ben,  had  been  despatched  to  Berganton, 
with  instructions  not  to  return  without  a  physician.  In  his 
haste  and  anxiety,  it  had  not  occurred  to  the  Major  to  make 
any  exception;  though  he  retained  a  sufficiently  angry 
reminiscence  of  Doctor  Remy's  cool  and  satirical  demeanor, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  ill-fated  visit  of  reconciliation  to 
Bergan,  to  have  prompted  one,  if  he  had  bethought  himself 
of  it  in  time. 

Ben,  therefore,  having  sought  two  other  representatives 
of  the  medical  profession  without  success,  finally  presented 
himself  at  Dr.  Remy's  office.  There  the  doctor  found  him, 
on  quitting  Bergan's  room  ;  and  in  very  brief  space  of 
time,  the  two  were  driving  swiftly  up  the  long  avenue, 
through  a  moonlight  that  was  scarcely  less  illuminative 
than  sunshine,  and  far  more  beautifying,  by  reason  of  the 
soft  charm  with  which  it  enhanced  beauties  while  it  con 
cealed  defects. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Doctor  Remy  had  entered 
upon  the  territory  of  Bergan  Hall.  He  was  surprised  both 
at  its  extent,  and  its  signs  of  opulence.  As  he  passed  the 
stately,  deserted  mansion, — showing  so  fair  in  the  moon 
light,  under  its  grand,  sheltering  oaks, — and  came  in  sight 
of  the  populous  negro-quarter,  and  the  far  stretch  of  culti 
vated  fields  beyond,  his  face  was  alive  not  only  with  inter 
est,  but  with  something  deeper  still ;  it  might  be  calcula 
tion. 

"  A  fair  inheritance ! "  he  said  to  himself.     "  Miss  Astra 


200  DOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

will  be  a  most  eligible  parti.  I  wonder  if  that  will  is 
made  !  " 

The  Major  was  standing  in  the  door  of  his  cottage,  as 
the  buggy  drove  up  with  the  doctor. 

"  So  it's  you,  is  it.?"  was  his  curt  salutation.  And  his 
tone  and  look  said  plainly  enough,  "  I  wish  it  were  any 
body  else  !  " 

But  Doctor  Remy,  though  generally  armed  at  all  points 
against  such  looks  and  tones,  now  seemed  to  take  no  no 
tice.  "Yes,"  said  he,  good-naturedly,  "  it  is  I.  Harris 
and  Gerrish  were  both  out,  and  Ben  had  to  take  me  or 
nobody.  Allow  me  to  assure  you  that  he  chose  wisely, 
for,  if  the  case  be  what  I  suspect,  from  his  account,  it  does 
not  admit  of  delay.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  sooner  I 
am  introduced  to  the  patient,  the  better." 

If  the  doctor  had  been  studying  his  speech  for  the  last 
half-hour,  it  could  not  have  been  more  skilfully  constructed. 
The  Major's  irritation  instantly  gave  way,  partly  melted  by 
the  doctor's  good  humor,  partly  forgotten  in  a  sudden  rush 
of  anxiety. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  said  he,  turning  to  lead  the  way  to 
old  Rue's  cabin,  which  was  but  a  little  way  from  the  cot 
tage.  As  they  approached,  painful  gasps  and  groans  were 
distinctly  heard  from  within. 

On  the  doorstep,  Major  Bergan  paused.  "  She  is  my 
old,  faithful  nurse,"  said  he,  feelingly.  "  Spare  nothing, — 
no  skill,  nor  trouble,  nor  expense, — no  more  than  if  she 
were  the  first  lady  of  the  county." 

A  kind  of  spasm  crossed  his  rugged  features,  and  throw 
ing  himself  down  on  a  bench  beside  the  door,  he  left  the 
doctor  to  enter  alone. 


X. 

PEELING  HIS  WAY. 

RUE  was  lying  on  her  bed,  propped  up  by  pillows  into 
a  half-sitting  postui'e.     Her  breath  came  raspingly 
and  painfully,  and  she  had  the  dingy  pallor  where 
with  disease  is  wont  to  write  itself  on  the  African  face. 

"  Is  it  death  ?  "  she  asked,  hoarsely,  when  the  doctor 
had  finished  his  examination.  "  Because,  if  it  is,  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  in  time  to  send  for  Master  Bergan, — I 
mean,  Mr.  Arling." 

Doctor  Remy  looked  down  upon  the  blind  woman  with 
a  grave,-almost  a  frowning,  face— which  she  could  not 
see. 

"  So  you  are  attached  to  Mr.  Arling,"  said  he. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  replied  Rue,  simply.  "  He  is  Miss 
Eleanor's  son,  you  know." 

If  Doctor  Remy  did  not  know,  he  could  easily  under 
stand.  He  was  aware  that  the  daughter  of  a  Southern 
house  remains  "  Miss  Eleanor  "  (or  whatever  the  Christian 
name  might  be)  to  the  end  of  her  days,  with  the  dusky 
home  population,  although,  in  the  meantime,  she  may  have 
become  a  great-grandmother.  Moreover,  various  scattered 
shreds  of  rumor  came  to  his  recollection,  enough  to  afford 
a  tolerably  accurate  explanation  of  the  blind  woman's  rea 
son  for  desiring  to  see  Bergan  Arling  at  her  bedside.  And 
though  the  matter  would  seem  to  be  no  concern  of  his,  it 
is  certain  that  he  gave  it  a  moment  or  two  of  profound 
study,  ere  he  answered  the  question  which  Rue  had  ad 
dressed  to  him.  Indeed,  it  was  very  much  Doctor  Remy's 
habit — as  it  is  that  of  selfish  natures  in  general — to  cou- 
9* 


202  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

sider  all  events  mainly  with  reference  to  their  bearing  upon 
his  own  interests,  and  to  hold  them  important  or  trivial, 
according  to  the  degree  of  favorable  or  adverse  influence 
which  they  would  be  likely  to  exert  upon  his  fortunes. 

The  doctor's  reflections  were  short  and  swift.  To  the 
bystanders,  there  seemed  to  be  only  the  natural,  deliberate 
pause  of  the  careful  physician,  before  deciding  upon  the 
case  presented  to  him.  Nor  was  Rue's  patience  greatly 
tried,  ere  his  answer  to  her  question  was  ready  for  her. 

"  Your  case  is  not  desperate,  this  time,"  said  he, 
"  though  I  can  see  that  it  is  painful.  Your  cold,  being 
unwisely  left  to  run  its  own  course,  has  resulted  in  inflam 
mation  of  the  throat,  and,  partially,  of  the  lungs.  But  it 
is  not  beyond  present  relief,  nor  permanent  cure,  I  think. 
At  least,  we  shall  soon  see." 

There  was  no  question  of  Doctor  Remy's  professional 
skill.  In  Berganton,  his  scientific  superiority  had  early 
been  recognized  by  the  community,  and  tacitly  conceded 
by  his  medical  brethren.  Yet  he  could  hardly  be  said  to 
be  popular,  even  with  his  patients.  There  was  no  affection 
mingled  with  the  respect  accorded  to  his  talent.  It  was 
intuitively  felt,  if  not  clearly  understood  and  expressed, 
that,  though  he  brought  every  resource  of  science  to  the 
sick-chamber,  he  brought  nothing  else.  He  was  as  cold 
and  pitiless  as  his  own  steel  probe  or  lance.  And  there  are 
times  when  a  deep,  human  sympathy,  on  the  part  of  the 
physician,  is  as  real  a  medicament  to  the  sufferer,  as  any 
set  down  in  the  pharmacopoeia ;  in  which  fact  many  a 
genial  quack  finds  his  account.  It  had  come,  therefore, 
to  be  very  much  the  Berganton  habit  to  reserve  Doctor 
Remy's  skill  for  severe  accidents,  for  consultations,  for  the 
awful  conflict  of  life  and  death  over  wasted  forms  writhing 
with  sharp  pain,  or  locked  in  moveless  stupor.  But  the 
thousand  pettier  ills  of  life,  which  asked  for  tender  consid 
eration  almost  as  imperatively  as  for  medicine,  preferred  to 
commit  themselves  to  the  fatherly  kindness  of  good  old 


FEELING    HIS    WAY.  203 

Doctor  Harris,  or  the  warm-hearted  enthusiasm  of  the  last 
medical  arrival, — Doctor  Gerrish,  whose  scientific  attain 
ments  had,  as  yet,  to  be  taken  for  granted,  but  whose  smile 
was  a  veritable  cordial. 

It  was  Doctor  Remy's  fate,  therefore,  to  stand  by  many 
deathbeds, — where  he  comported  himself  much  more  like  a 
baffled  and  beaten  general  than  a  sympathetic,  sorrow- 
stricken  friend.  It  was  also  his  frequent  privilege  to  see 
the  life-forces  rally  and  stand  fast,  under  his  generalship, 
to  begin  anew  the  fight  that  seemed  wellnigh  over,  to  win 
back,  inch  by  inch,  the  ground  that  had  been  lost,  and 
finally  to  stand  a  conqueror  on  the  field.  Even  then,  those 
most  indebted  to  his  skill  were  often  chilled  to  see  how 
little  the  cold  triumph  of  his  face  had  to  do  with  their  deep 
heart  gladness.  Nevertheless,  this  was  the  position  wherein 
the  doctor  appeared  at  his  best, — as  now  at  Rue's  bed 
side. 

For  some  reason, — probably  as  a  step  to  Major  Bergan's 
favor, — he  was  putting  forth  all  his  skill.  In  one  respect,  he 
was  always  admirable  :  he  never  hesitated  to  put  his  pro 
fessional  hand  to  any  business  that  might  seem  to  belong 
more  properly  to  the  nurse.  Rue's  attendants  were  ignor 
ant  and  awkward  ;  if  Doctor  Remy  had  not  helped  to  carry 
his  orders  into  effect,  progress  would  have  been  slow.  As 
it  was,  the  treatment  was  prompt  and  effective.  In  about 
an  hour,  the  acute  pains  had  ceased,  respiration  had  become 
less  difficult,  and  Rue  having  devoutly  thanked  the  doctor, 
under  God,  for  relief  so  speedy  and  so  grateful,  had  turned 
on  her  side  for  a  complete  self-surrender  to  the  delightful 
drowsiness  that  was  stealing  over  her. 

Coming  out,  Dr.  Remy  found  Brick  waiting  for  him, 
on  the  bench  where  he  had  left  the  Major. 

"  Is  gramma  goin'  to  get  well  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Certainly, — in  a  few  days,"  returned  the  doctor. 
"  Where  is  your  master  ?  " 

The    negro    pointed    to    the   Major's    cottage.     "  Ole 


204  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

massa  is  thar,"   he  answered.     "  He  tole  me,  wlien  you's 
t'rough,  to  ax  you  to  come  an'  see  him." 

The  doctor  turned  in  the  direction  indicated,  but  was 
plainly  in  no  hurry  to  reach  the  goal.  He  walked  very 
leisurely,  stopping,  now  and  then,  to  look  round  on  the 
moonlit  landscape.  Not  till  he  seemed  to  have  settled 
some  knotty  point  to  his  satisfaction,  did  he  enter  the  cot 
tage. 

The  Major  was  seated  at  the  table,  with  his  bottle  and 
glass  before  him.  He  did  not  need  to  ask  Doctor  Remy 
how  the  case  had  gone  ;  that  had  already  been  made  known 
to  him  by  the  mouths  of  half-a-dozen  eager  messengers. 
He  merely  said,  in  a  tone  that  was  half  a  protest  ; — 

"  I  never  expected  to  be  so  much  obliged  to  you,  Doc 
tor  Remy.  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  my  faithful  old  nurse. 
She  is  the  last  link  between  me  and  my  early  days.  Is  she 
out  of  danger  ?" 

"  For  the  present,  yes.  And  in  the  morning,  I  will  look 
in  to  see  how  she  goes  on, — that  is,  if  you  wish." 

"  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor,"  returned  the  Major,  in  atone 
that  was  almost  courteous.  "  Sit  down,  before  you  go,  and 
take  a  drink." 

Doctor  Remy  quietly  took  a  chair,  but  shook  his  head 
at  the  proffered  glass.  "  No,  thank  you,"  said  he.  "  We 
physicians  need  to  keep  our  heads  clear  and  our  nerves 
steady  ;  and  brandy  does  not  conduce  to  either." 

"It  never  hurt  mine,"  answered  Major  Bergan,  rather 
surlily,  as  if  he  suspected  a  covert  insinuation  in  the  doc 
tor's  words. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Dr.  Remy,  indifferently.  And, 
glancing  out  of  the  open  window,  he  added,  "  A  fine  place 
you  have  here." 

"  The  finest  in  the  county,"  replied  the  Major,  with 
frank  pride.  "  That  is,  as  far  as  soil  and  crops  are  con 
cerned.  The  old  Hall  is  out  of  repair,  to  be  sure,  but  it  can 
be  restored  to  its  former  grandpur,  whenever  I  see  fit." 


FEELING    HIS   WAY.  205 

Dr.  Remy  gave  his  host  a  long,  penetrating,  comprehen 
sive  look.  "  I  should  advise  you  not  to  neglect  the  work 
loo  long,"  he  observed,  gravely,  "  if  you  have  it  much  at 
heart." 

Major  Bergan  set  down  the  glass  that  was  on  its  way  to 
his  lips,  and  looked  wonderingly  at  his  guest. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  a  man  of  your  age,  with  your  habits,  breaks 
doAvn  soon,  when  once  he  begins." 

"  My  habits  !  "  growled  the  Major,  drawing  his  eyebrows 
into  a  heavy  frown,  "what  do  you  mean,  you  insolent 
scamp?" 

"  I  mean,"  replied  Doctor  Remy,  composedly,  "  habits 
at  once  active,  careless,  and  self-indulgent ;  such  as  riding 
or  walking  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  spending  hours  in  the  rice 
fields,  rising  early  and  sitting  up  late,  eating  ad  libitum, 
and  drinking  ad  infinitum" 

The  summary  was  too  truthful,  and  the  tone  too  profes 
sional,  for  the  Major  to  retain  his  unreasonable  anger.  He 
merely  asked, — "  How  do  you  know  that  I  do  these 
things?" 

"  By  your  looks." 

"  Pshaw  ! "  exclaimed  Major  Bergan,  with  a  scornful 
curl  of  the  lip. 

Doctor  Remy  smiled,  with  the  calm  unconcern  of  a  man 
who  knows  his  ground.  "  Your  looks  tell  me  more  than 
that,"  said  he. 

"  If  they  tell  you  anything  but  that  I  am  well, — per 
fectly  well, — they  lie,"  answered  the  Major,  bluntly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  Doctor  Remy.  "  Doubt- 
loss,  then,  you  sleep  sound  and  soft." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  grumbled  the  Major,  with  unsuspecting 
frankness,  "  I  sleep  like  a  man  tossed  in  a  blanket." 

"  And  probably  you  have  pleasant  dreams." 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  perfect  Bedlam  of  furies  and  hor 
rors." 


20G  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

"  And  I  suppose  that  you  never  have  headaches,  or  dizzi 
ness,  or  vagueness  and  loss  of  sight." 

"  I  have  them  all,"  growled  the  Major,  with  an  oath, 
"  every  miserable  item  of  them.  I  had  an  attack,  about  a 
fortnight  ago,  that  actually  laid  me  up  in  bed  for  a  day  !  I 
wonder  what  it  all  means !  " 

Doctor  Remy  forebore  to  signalize  his  victory  by  so 
much  as  a  triumphant  look.  "  It  means,"  he  answered, 
quietly,  "  that  you  will  be  none  the  worse  for  a  little  medi 
cine  in  the  house,  as  a  provision  for  future  attacks  of  the 
sort." 

And  opening  his  pocket  medicine-case,  Doctor  Repay 
selected  three  or  four  small  phials,  and  began  to  measure, 
mix,  and  fold  up  powders,  with  a  dexterity  that  it  pleased 
the  Major  to  witness.  He  noticed,  too,  that  the  doctor's 
brow  was  deeply  knit  as  he  prosecuted  his  task,  and  that 
lie  held  one  of  the  phials  suspended,  for  a  moment,  over  the 
small  square  of  paper,  before  discharging  its  contents.  All 
this  looked  as  if  his  case  was  getting  due  consideration,  and 
the  Major  was  proportionably  gratified. 

Doctor  Remy  ended  by  pushing  a  dozen  or  more  of  tiny 
folded  papers  across  the  table.  "  Take  one,  in  water,  eveiy 
two  hours,"  said  he,  "  till  the  symptoms  abate, — that  is,  of 
course,  when  you  have  another  attack.  There  arc  enough 
for  several  occasions  ;  I  know  you  do  not  like  to  send  for  a 
doctor,  if  it  can  be  avoided.  At  the  same  time,"  he  added, 
"  take  care  to  drop  those  careless  habits  that  I  mentioned.  " 

The  last  sentence  brought  a  cloud  to  Major  Bergan's 
brow ;  but  the  doctor  gave  it  time  to  dissipate  while  he 
packed  his  medicine  case,  and  chatted  pleasantly  about  its 
convenient  arrangements.  "And  now,"  said  he,  rising, 
"  what  else  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  that  I  know  of,"  replied  the  Major,  "  except 
it  be  to  present  your  bill.  What  else  can  a  doctor  do  ?  " 

"  Several  things,"  answered  Doctor  Remy,  lightly. 
"  Make  your  will,  for  instance." 


FEELING   HIS   WAY.  207 

The  Major  laughed  outright.  "  I  should  say  that  was  a 
lawyer's  business,"  said  he. 

"  So  it  is.  But  do  you  not  know  that  I  once  belonged  to 
the  bar  ?  " 

"  I  do  remember  hearing  something  of  the  sort,  now 
that  you  remind  me  of  it,"  rejoined  the  Major  dryly.  "  I 
don't  think  any  the  better  of  you  for  it." 

"  Nor  any  the  worse,  I  hope,"  returned  Doctor  Remy, 
placidly.  "  At  all  events,  I  always  advise  my  patients  to 
make  their  wills.  There  is  nothing  like  a  mind  at  rest  about 
the  future,  to  prolong  life."  He  seemed  to  speak  carelessly, 
yet  he  fastened  a  keen  look  on  the  Major's  face,  neverthe 
less. 

The  latter  only  smiled.  "  When  I  want  my  will  made," 
said  he,  coolly,  "  I  will  employ  you  to  do  the  job." 

"  He  has  made  it  already,  as  he  said  he  would,"  thought 
Doctor  Remy  to  himself.  "  And  the  chances  are  that  he 
won't  live  to  alter  it. 

"  I  shall  be  very  much  at  your  service,"  he  answered, 
aloud.  "  And  now,  I  must  be  getting  town  ward  ;  I  have 
to  see  another  patient  this  evening." 

The  Major  followed  him  out,  and  stood  for  some  mo 
ments  watching  the  retreating  buggy.  Doctor  Remy, 
looking  back,  saw  him  there  in  the  moonlight,  and  a 
strange,  furtive  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  given  '  Providence  '  a  chance,"  said  he  to  him 
self.  "  Let  us  see  what  it  does  with  it." 

Major  Bergan,  meanwhile,  was  muttering, — "  What 
did  he  mean,  I  wonder,  by  talking  to  me  about  my  will  ? 
It  is  certainly  no  concern  of  his.  Does  he  really  think  me 
near  death  ?  "  And  the  Major  shivered,  as  if  there  had 
been  an  uncomfortable  chill  in  the  thought. 

"  Uncle  Harry,"  said  a  clear,  sweet  voice,  close  at  his 
elbow.  He  started,  and  turned  quickly  round. 

A  slender,  girlish  shape, — a  graceful  head,  drooping 
like  a  lily  on  its  stem, — a  fair,  pure,  bright  face, — this  was 


208  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

the  vision  that  confronted  him,  and  carried  him  back  to 
his  youth,  and  to  the  love  of  his  youth ;  the  untoward 
course  of  which  had  doubtless  helped  to  make  him  the 
man  that  he  was. 

"  Clarissa  !  "  he  exclaimed,  trembling,  and  feeling  as  if 
he  were  in  a  dream. 

The  vision  smiled.  "  Do  you  not  know  me,  uncle  ?  "  it 
asked,  in  its  sweet  tones ;  "  I  am  Carice." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  Major,  slowly,  and  as  if  but  half 
awake.  He  took  his  niece's  hands,  and  gazed  earnestly 
in  her  face.  "  You  are  like  your  mother,  child,  or  like 
what  she  was  at  your  age,  much  more  than  you  are  like 
the  child  that  used  to  play  around  my  knees, — let  me  see, 
— six — eight — nine  years  ago.  I  missed  her,  Carice,  when 
she  stopped  coming,  I  missed  her." 

"  She  missed  you,  too,  uncle,"  replied  Carice.  "  She 
was  very  fond  of  you.' 

"  Then  why  did  she  stop  coming  ?  asked  the  Major, 
gloomily. 

"  Because,  uncle,"  answered  Carice,  simply,  "  she  grew 
old  enough  to  know  that  it  is  a  child's  duty  to  obey,  and 
not  to  question." 

The  Major's  brow  darkened ;  but  he  looked  sad,  too. 
"  I  never  laid  it  up  against  you,  Carice,"  he  said,  with  sig 
nificant  emphasis. 

"  Nor  against  any  one,  I  hope,"  replied  Carice,  coax- 
ingly.  "  Oh,  uncle,  ought  not  this  long  feud  to  cease  ?  " 

Major  Bergan  shook  his  head.  "  There  is  no  feud  be 
tween  you  and  me,  child,"  said  he.  "  Eut,  as  for  your 
father,"  he  went  on,  with  a  kindling  eye  and  a  roughening 
voice,  "  when  he — " 

Carice  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  As  you  were  just 
saying,"  said  she,  gently,  "  he  is  my  father.  And,  dear 
uncle,  a  daughter's  ear  is  easily  hurt." 

The  Major  stopped,  and  nearly  choked  himself  with  the 
sentence  so  suddenly  arrested  on  his  lips.  "  Then,  what 


FEELING    HIS    WAY.  209 

are  you  here  for  ? "  he  finally  blurted  out,  half-wonder- 
ingly,  half-sternly. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Carice,  in  a  tone  of  sudden  recollec 
tion,  "  I  had  nearly  forgotten  my  ei'rand,  in  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you." 

The  Major's  face  grew  soft  again.  He  put  his  hands 
on  Carice's  shoulders,  turned  her  toward  the  full  moon 
light,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  in  her  face.  "  How 
beautiful  you  have  grown  !  "  said  he,  with  even  more  of 
wonder  than  admiration  in  his  voice  ;  "  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  you  arc  still  more  beautiful  than  she  was.  But  you 
don't  look  as  if  you  belonged  to  this  eai'th,  child ;  and 
there's  not  a  bit  of  the  family  look  left  in  you.  Are  you 
certain  that  you  are  Carice  Bergan,  and  not  a  change 
ling  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  uncle,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "  Ask 
Rosa,  there,  if  I  am  not."  She  pointed  to  her  maid,  who 
had  accompanied  her,  and  stood  waiting  ncr.r. 

"  Then,  Miss  Bergan,"  said  the  Major,  making  her  a 
courtly  bow,  "  what  can  your  old  uncle  do  for  you  ?  " 

"Nothing,  at  present,"  she  replied,  "except  to  let  me 
keep  my  own,  old  corner  in  his  heart.  I  only  came  to  sec 
Maumer  Rue,  if  I  may.  We  heard  she  Avas  dying.  So  I 
begged  hard  to  be  allowed  to  come  and  tell  her  that  I  had 
not  forgotten  how  kind  she  used  to  be  to  me,  and  to  see  if 
I  could  do  anything  for  her.  I  fancied  it  would  please  her 
to  see  me,  if  she  is  still  able  to  recognize  me.  Is  she  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  able,"  replied  Major  Bergan,  "  and  will  be, 
I  hope,  for  years  to  come.  She  has  been  very  ill,  but  she 
is  much  better.  She  is  now  asleep." 

"Then  I  will  not  disturb  her,"  returned  Carice.  "And 
yet,  I  am  loath  to  go  back  without  a  glimpse  of  her.  Could 
I  not  look  in  upon  her  for  one  moment  ?  I  will  be  sure 
not  to  make  a  sound." 

Major  Bergan  led  her  to  Rue's  cabin,  and  waited  on  the 
threshold,  while,  with  her  finger  on  her  lips,  to  guard 


210  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

against  any  outburst  of  astonishment  from  the  negro 
woman  in  attendance,  she  stole  softly  to  the  bedside,  and 
bent  over  the  sleeping  Rue.  A  wondrously  lovely  picture; 
she  made  there, — a  picture  of  such  unearthly  grace,  deli 
cacy,  and  purity,  that  the  Major's  eyes  filled  with  uncon 
scious  moisture  as  he  gazed. 

Suddenly  Rue's  lips  parted,  in  a  dream.  "  The  Bergan 
star ! "  said  she.  "  See  !  it  rises  !  "  And,  after  a  moment, 
she  added,  decidedly,  "  He  shall  have  Bergan  Hall !  " 

Carice  quickly  stole  out  to  her  uncle.  His  face  looked 
very  gloomy,  as  he  led  her  back  toward  the  cottage. 

"  Carice,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "  have  you  seen  your 
Western  cousin  ?" 

"  Bergan  Arling  ?     Yes,  certainly,"  she  answered. 

"  How  do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  He  seems  very  pleasant,"  slue  replied,  evasively. 

"  Seems  !  "  repeated  her  uncle,  gruffly.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  him?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  uncle.  It  is  said  that  he  is  very 
dissipated." 

The  Major  laughed  ironically.  "  Nonsense  !  The  most 
incorrigible  milksop  that  ever  I  saw,"  said  lie.  "  That  is 
why  we  quarrelled." 

Carice  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  "  The  very  first  tiling 
that  we  heard  of  him,"  said  she,  "  was  that  he  had  been 
mixed  up  in  a  low  brawl  at  Gregg's  tavern." 

"  All  my  fault,  Carice,"  returned  Major  Bergan,  shortly. 
u  I  took  him  there,  and  cheated  him  into  swallowing  a  glass 
of  raw  brandy." 

Carice's  blue  eyes  looked  a  sorrowful  astonishment. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  do  him  any  harm,"  pursued  the 
Major,  answering  their  mute  eloquence ;  "  I  only  wanted  to 
teach  him  to  drink  like  a  man  and  a  Bergan.  I  loved  the 
boy,  Carice,  like  my  own  son,  and  would  have  kept  him 
with  me,  if  I  could.  But  he  foi-sook  me  for  the  law,  the 
ungrateful  dog ! " 


FEELING    HIS   WAY.  211 

"Perhaps  he  had  no  choice,"  suggested  Carice. 

"  No  choice  !  Didn't  he  have  the  choice  of  Bergan 
Hall,  and  all  that  belongs  to  it  ?  'That  was  what  was 
running  in  Maumer  Rue's  head,  just  now.  But  he  preferred 
independence — and  a  tin  sign  in  his  window !  He  is  a 
degenerate  scion  of  the  race,  like  your — "  The  Major 
suddenly  recollected  himself,  and  broke  off  with  a  dry 
cough. 

Carice  was  looking  down  thoughtfully.  An  unexpected 
clue  to  Bergan's  character,  motives,  and  aims,  had  been 
put  into  her  hands ;  and  she  was  slowly  trying  to  follow 
it  out. 

"  Thank  you,  uncle,  for  telling  me  this,"  said  she,  at 
length.  "I  am  afraid  we  have  been  doing  Bergan  an 
injustice." 

"You  certainly  have,  if  you  have  thought  him  a  drunk 
ard,"  replied  the  Major.  "  But,  nevertheless,  he's  no  true 
Bergan,  Cai'ice  ;  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"No  more  than  is  just  and  right,"  said  Carice,  quietly. 
"  And  now  I  must  go ;  mamma  will  be  getting  anxious. 
Come  a  little  way  with  me,  uncle,  as  you  used  to  do." 

The  Major  walked  by  her  side  down  to  the  creek,  and 
watched  her  anxiously  across  the  dilapidated  bridge. 

"  Don't  come  that  way  again,"  he  called  to  her,  as  she 
reached  the  other  end.  "  It's  unsafe." 

"  Mend  it  then,  uncle,"  she  called  back  to  him.  "  For 
I  like  old  paths — and  old  friends — best." 

The  Major  turned  away  with  a  smile.  And  all  the  way 
to  the  cottage  he  was  saying  to  himself, — 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  make  my  will." 


XI 

SLEEPLESS    NIGHTS    APPOINTED. 

DOCTOR  REMY  possessed  in  perfection  the  power  of 
rapid  concentration  of  thought.  Otherwise,  he 
would  have  taken  a  divided  mind  to  the  bedside  of 
his  second  patient,  that  night,  after  leaving  Bergan  Hall. 
As  it  was,  he  was  glad  when  the  stroke  of  midnight  set 
him  free,  body  and  mind ;  the  one  to  find  its  way  mechani 
cally  to  the  hotel,  through  the  silent  moonlighted  streets  of 
Berganton,  the  other  to  occupy  itself  in  arranging  and  per 
fecting  the  details  of  a  certain  plan  for  his  future  advantage, 
which  had  suddenly  shaped  itself  out  before  him,  so  dis 
tinctly,  if  roughly,  that  he  had  already  taken  an  import 
ant  step  toward  its  accomplishment.  It  now  remained  to 
provide  for  the  rest  of  the  way. 

The  midnight  heaven  was  without  a  cloud,  and  the 
moon  filled  it  with  white  radiance.  Every  object  down 
the  long  line  of  the  town's  principal  street  was  shown  with 
the  clearness  of  noonday,  but  also  with  the  ghostlike  awful- 
ness  that  moonlight  is  wont  to  impart  to  objects  the  most 
familial-.  The  large,  wooden  houses,  with  their  broad, 
shadowy  piazzas  and  dim  doorways ;  the  wide,  empty  side 
walks  ;  the  great,  shining-leaved  oaks,  dotting  the  silvered 
highway  with  black  islands  of  shadow ;  the  narrow  wheel- 
track,  with  its  broad  margin  of  grass  and  weeds,  through 
which  an  isolated  footpath  took  its  solitary  way  to  every 
gate ; — all  were  distinctly  visible,  but  with  a  singularity  of 
aspect  that  seemed  to  change  their  whole  character  and 
meaning. 

And  perhaps  something  of  the  same  effect  extended  to 


SLEEPLESS   NIGHTS   APPOINTED.  213 

the  countenance  of  Doctor  Reray,  as  he  came  down  the 
street,  followed  by  the  dreary  echo  of  his  own  lonely  foot 
steps,  as  if  dogged  by  immitigable  fate.  To  his  features, 
as  to  all  other  objects,  the  moonlight  seemed  to  impart  a 
new  expression.  Those  who  were  best  acquainted  with 
him,  had  any  such  been  abroad,  would  have  needed  to  look 
twice  at  his  dark  moody  countenance,  and  the  ominous 
gleam  of  his  deepset  eyes,  to  feel  themselves  quite  sure  of 
his  identity.  Continuing  to  brood  over  the  casual  encoun 
ter,  as  they  pursued  their  way,  they  might  have  ti'ied  to 
divine  what  sombre  energy  of  purpose  it  was  that  had  lit 
his  eyes  with  such  deep,  dusky  light,  and  marked  his  brow 
and  eyes  with  lines  so  sternly  rigid  ;  shuddering,  too,  to 
think  how  remorselessly  he  would  sweep  from  his  terribly 
direct,  if  underground,  path,  wrhatever  object  should  inter 
vene  between  himself  and  his  goal.  Then,  seeing  how  the 
moonbeams  had  subtilized  some  mean  hovel  into  a  phantom 
palace  or  tomb,  wrought  of  alternate  silver  and  ebony, 
they  would  be  fain  to  set  down  both  the  origin  and  sub 
stance  of  their  reflections  to  the  same  magical  agency,  and 
breathe  more  freely  in  making  haste  to  forget  the  whole 
matter. 

Secure  in  the  absence  of  all  observation,  the  dark  face 
kept  on  its  way  through  the  silent  street,  giving  its  features 
the  fullest  liberty  of  evil  expression.  Opposite  the  princi 
pal  dry  goods  store  of  the  street,  it  paused  for  a  moment ; 
its  restless  glance  had  caught  sight  of  a  faint  gleam  from 
one  of  the  rear  shutters,  which  was  plainly  not  moonlight. 

"  They  are  up  late,"  muttered  the  doctor,  "  or  there  is 
mischief  afoot.  Well!  what  is  it  to  me?  Have  I  not 
enough  else  to  think  of?"  And  he  kept  on  his  rapid  way. 

But  the-  incident  seemed  to  have  set  free  the  faculty  of 
speech.  Words  began  to  drop  from  his  set  lips ;  short,  dis 
connected  sentences,  through  which,  nevertheless,  there  ran 
a  distinct  thread  of  suggestion. 

"I  have  waited  long  enough," — so  ran  one  of  these 


214  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COKDS 

half-involuntary  utterances, — "  I  have  waited  long  enough 
for  Fortune's  willing  favors ;  it  is  time  to  grapple  with  the 
exasperating  jade,  and  wring  them  from  her  reluctant 
hands,  by  fair  means  or  foul.  For  what  else  was  I  endowed 
with  talent,  daring,  energy,  and  will,  beyond  most  men  ? 
Not,  certainly,  to  waste  them  all  in  earning  a  bare  subsis 
tence,  or  little  more,  as  I  am  now  doing." 

"Is  it  my  fault,"  he  went  on,  in  broken,  detached  sen 
tences, — "is  it  my  fault  that  Fortune  never  shows  her 
self  to  me,  save  at  the  farther  end  of  some  dark  vista 
which  the  world  calls  crime  ? — Pshaw !  what  is  a  life,  one 
worthless,  drunken,  half-worn-out  life,  in  comparison  with 
the  ends  that  I  have  in  view, — inci'ease  of  knowledge,  ex 
pansion  and  perfection  of  science,  and  through  them — as  a 
casual  end,  I  do  not  pi'etend  that  it  is  a  direct  one,  for  me 
— the  advancement  of  the  human  race. — The  plan  seems 
feasible,  as  much  so,  at  least,  as  anything  can  be,  in  this 
miserable,  mocking  world,  where  Fate  seems  to  delight  in 
balking  the  best  talent  and  deranging  the  artfulest  contri 
vance. — Fate,  Chance,  or  Providence,  which?  Three  dif 
ferent  terms  for  the  same  thing  ; — language  would  be  more 
accurate,  if  there  were  less  of  it. — At  any  rate,  I  have  given 
Providence  a  chance.  Let  it  take  the  responsibility  of  the 
result. — If  that  will  be  not  made  !  But  to  whom  else  should 
he  give  the  place  ?  He  cannot  abide  either  his  brother  or 
his  nephew.  And  Miss  Lyte  comes  next.  Besides,  there 
are  ways  of  finding  a  will,  at  need.  The  essential  point  is, 
that  no  other  be  made." 

He  was  now  nearing  Mrs.  Lyte's  house,  and  the  sight 
of  it  prompted  his  next  sentence. 

"  Astra  ! — there,  at  least,  the  way  is  easy.  Only,  it 
must  be  secret ; — I  doubt  if  the  old  Major  would  altogether 
relish  me  for  his  heir,  despite  to-night's  increase  of  cor 
diality. — As  for  Arling,  it  is  said  that  history — " 

Dr.  Remy  broke  off  suddenly.  The  subject  of  his  solil 
oquy  was  calmly  looking  at  him  across  Mrs.  Lyte's  gate. 


SLEEPLESS   NIGHTS    APPOINTED.  215 

"  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  your  conversation,"  said 
Bergan,  with  a  smile  which  satisfied  the  doctor  that  lie  had 
not  heard  what  he  was  saying.  "  One's  talks  with  one's 
self  are  sometimes  very  interesting." 

"  Why  are  you  not  in  bed  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  with  a 
sharpness  that  Bergan  set  down  to  professional  anxiety. 

"  A  man  who  goes  to  bed  at  six  may  well  get  up  at 
twelve,"  he  replied,  lightly,  "  especially  if  sleep  forsakes 
him.  Have  you  been  out  until  this  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  doctor,  debating  within  himself 
whether  he  would  speak  of  his  visit  to  Bergan  Hall,  and 
quickly  deciding  in  the  negative,  since  there  was  little 
probability  that  Bergan  would  hear  it  from  anybody  else  ; 
inasmuch  as  the  Hall  led  an  independent,  isolated  life  of  its 
own,  the  events  of  which  rarely  made  their  way  into  the 
talk  of  the  town.  "  It  is  nothing  new  for  me  to  be  late." 
he  added,  by  way  of  finish  to  his  monosyllable. 

"  I  will  walk  down  with  you  as  far  as  the  hotel," 
said  Bergan,  coming  out,  and  closing  the  gate  behind  him. 
"  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  pick  up  a  few  seeds  of  sleep  on 
the  way,  which  will  sprout  into  another  nap,  when  I  return. 
What  a  night  it  is  !  " 

O 

"  For  lunatics — yes,"  said  the  doctor  dryly. 

"  Among  Avhich  you  would  doubtless  class  your  humble 
servant,"  returned  Bergan, "  if  you  could  look  into  his  mind, 
at  this  moment." 

"  Very  likely,"  rejoined  Doctor  Remy,  indifferently ;  but 
he  gave  his  companion  a  quick,  keen  glance,  nevertheless. 

Bergan  was  looking  straight  before  him.  "  Doctor,"  said 
he,  suddenly,  "  I  believe  you  know  the  world  well ;  what 
does  it  do  to  the  man  who  goes  counter  to  its  traditions 
and  prejudices, — whom,  in  short,  it  is  pleased  to  look  upon 
as  a  kind  of  modern  Don  Quixote  ?  " 

"  Laughs  at  him  first,  hammers  him  next,  flings  him 
aside  last,"  returned  the  doctor,  sententiously. 

"  But  if  he  does  not  mind  being  laughed  at,  bears  the 


216  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKD3. 

hammering  without  flinching  when  he  must,  hammers  back 
again  when  he  may,  and  will  not  be  flung  aside,  what 
then  ?  "  pursued  Bergan. 

The  doctor  stopped  short  in  his  walk,  and  looked  long 
and  searchingly  in  the  young  man's  face.  "  Then,"  said 
he,  slowly,  as  if  the  words  were  drawn  out  of  him  almost 
against  his  will, — "  then  it  gives  way  to  him,  and  honors 
its  conqueror.  But,"  he  added,  "  it  is  a  long,  exhausting 
contest.  I  do  not  advise  you  to  try  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Bergan,  quietly.  "  I  am 
inclined  to  try  it,  nevertheless.  But  here  we  are  at  the 
hotel.  Good  night." 

Doctor  Remy  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  looking 
moodily  after  him. 

"  What  has  he  taken  into  his  head  now  ? "  he  asked 
himself. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  for  an  answer.  In  the  morn 
ing,  the  light  which  he  had  noticed  in  the  rear  of  the  dry- 
goods  store,  found  its  sufficient  explanation  in  an  empty 
safe  and  rifled  shelves.  A  week  afterward,  a  tall,  ill- 
favored  man  was  arrested  on  suspicion  of  being  concerned 
in  the  robbery.  Two  days  later,  it  was  known  that  Bergan 
Ai'ling  had  positively  refused  to  undertake  his  defence.  In 
due  course  of  time,  it  leaked  out,  through  the  amazed  pris 
oner  himself,  that  he  had  done  so  because  he  believed  it  to 
be  no  part  of  his  professional  duty  to  try  to  shield  a  crimi 
nal  from  just  punishment. 


XII. 

A   CONSULTATION. 

PLAINLY,  Mrs.  Bergan  had  something  on  her  mind, 
that  bright  spring  morning.     Though  she  poured  her 
husband's  second  cup  of  coffee  with  a  deliberation 
that  seemed  to  promise  much  for  its  flavor,  he  was  fain  to 
send    it  back,  after  tasting  it,  with  the    explanatory   re 
mark  : — 

"  You  have  forgotten  to  smile  into  it,  my  dear ;  it  is 
not  sweet  enough." 

"  Eh  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bergan,  absently,  extending  her 
hand  toward  the  cream  pitcher. 

"  I  doubt  if  cream  will  mend  the  matter  much,"  observed 
Mr.  Bergan,  gravely.  "  A  lump  of  sugar  might  do,  if  the 
smile  be  absolutely  non  est" 

Mrs.  Bergan's  mind  having  by  this  time  returned  to  the 
business  in  hand,  both  sugar  and  smile  were  immediately 
forthcoming,  in  sufficient  measure  to  threaten  the  coffee 
with  excess  of  sweets.  Nevertheless,  she  continued  to  have 
fits  of  abstraction,  at  short  intervals,  until  the  breakfast 
things  had  been  removed,  and  Caricehad  quitted  the  room. 
Then,  she  turned  to  her  husband  with  a  serious  face. 

"  I  really  think,  Godfrey,"  she  began,  "  that  we  owe  your 
nephew  some  attention. " 

"  Of  what  kind,  pray  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Bergan,  in  con 
siderable  surprise. 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  ought, — once,  at  least, 
— to  invite  him  formally  to  dinner." 

"  Pray,  what  has  he  been  doing,  to  place  us  under  such 
an  obligation  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bergan,  somewhat  dryly. 
10 


218  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

Mrs.  Bergan  colored  slightly.  "  I  am  afraid  that  we 
made  a  mistake  at  the  outset,"  said  she.  "  Of  course,  the 
attention  was  due  to  him  then  as  much  as  now." 

"  I  thought  we  agreed  that  the  less  Carice  saAV  of  him, 
the  better,"  replied  Mr.  Bergan. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  that  was  because  we  believed  him 
to  be  of  intemperate  habits." 

Men  of  Godfrey  Bergan's  thoughtful  and  deliberate 
character,  when  they  adopt  a  mistaken  opinion,  are  wont  to 
wedge  it  in  so  firmly  among  things  undeniably  true  and 
just,  that  to  dislodge  it  is  like  tearing  up  an  oak  which  has 
rooted  itself  in  a  rock  cleft.  "  I  wish  I  were  certain  that 
he  is  not,"  he  answered,  with  a  slow,  grave  shake  of  the 
head. 

Mrs.  Bergan  gave  him  a  surprised  look.  "  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  doubt  him,"  said  she.  "  Everybody 
agrees  that  a  more  correct  young  man  does  not  exist.  He 
is  always  to  be  found  in  his  office  during  office  hours,  at 
tends  Church  regularly  on  Sundays,  as  well  as  at  most  of 
the  occasional  services,  goes  into  but  little  society,  and  that 
oi  the  very  best, — what  more  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  her  husband,  "  except  the  certainty 
that  it  will  last.  A  drunkard's  reform  is  so  rarely  a  per 
manent  thing,  that  one  is  justified  in  distrusting  it.  Though 
he  may  keep  as  sober  as  a  Carthusian  monk  for  a  few 
months,  or  even  for  a  year  or  two,  his  unhappy  appetite  is 
only  a  caged  lion  :  in  the  first  unguarded  moment,  it  is  cer 
tain  to  break  out,  and  to  sweep  everything  before  it — reso 
lution,  hope,  energy,  and  promise.  Unfortunately  for  my 
nephew,  perhaps,  but  very  fortunately  for  ourselves,  I  fancy, 
I  happen  to  retain  a  distinct  recollection  of  my  first  meeting 
with  him." 

"  But,"  urged  Mrs.  Bergan,  "  I  thought  Carice  told  you 
what  your  brother  Harry  said  about  that  matter." 

"  With  all  due  respect  for  my  brother  Harry,"  returned 
her  husband,  coolly,  "  I  don't  consider  his  testimony,  in  this 


A   CONSULTATION.  219 

matter,  to  be  worth  much.  Intemperance  is,  in  his  estima 
tion,  so  very  venial  a  sin, — not  to  say,  so  very  Berganly  a 
virtue, — that  he  would  be  sure  to  extenuate  it,  if  lie  could." 

"  lie  would  never  say  what  was  not  true,"  affirmed  Mrs. 
Bergan,  decidedly. 

"  No,  but  he  would  look  at  the  affair  from  his  own  point 
of  view,  and  speak  accordingly." 

"  But  your  nephew  left  him  on  account  of  that  very 
affair,"  persisted  Mrs.  Bergan,  "  and  has  refused  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  him  since,  even  with  Bergan  Hall  held 
out  to  him  as  a  bait." 

"  In  which,"  rejoined  Mr.  Bergan,  composedly,  "  he 
shows  that  he  has  more  of  the  hereditary  temper  than  is 
good  for  him,  or  any  one  connected  with  him.  It  is  the 
same  trait  that  has  made  Harry  so  bitt<  r  against  us,  all  these 
years.  And  one  feud  in  the  family  was  enough — and  too 
much." 

Mrs.  Bergan  began  to  look  annoyed.  While  she  ad 
mitted  the  general  truth  of  her  husband's  observations,  she 
had  an  intuitive  conviction  of  their  present  misapplication. 
Her  womanly  instincts  were  all  in  Bergan's  favor.  But  that, 
she  knew,  was  no  ground  of  effective  argument. 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  clouded  face,  for  a  moment, 
and  then  went  to  her  side.  "  Confess  now,  Clarissa,"  said 
he,  pleasantly,  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "  that  our 
nephew's  claims  upon  our  attention  would  never  have  pre 
sented  themselves  so  strongly  to  your  mind,  were  it  not  for 
his  late  brilliant  hit  in  the  court  room,  and  the  sudden  ad 
miration  and  popularity  which  it  has  won  him." 

A  slight  flush  showed  on  Mrs.  Bergan's  cheek ;  never 
theless,  she  met  her  husband's  eyes  frankly.  "  I  acknowl 
edge  that  those  things  had  their  effect  in  making  me 
ashamed  of  myself,"  she  answered.  "But,  all  the  time, 
I  have  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  we  were  not  doing  our 
duty  by  your  sister's  son.  Surely,  we  ought  to  have  been 
the  very  last  persons  to  have  listened  to,  and  acted  upo?i, 


220  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKDS. 

a  rumor  unfavorable  to  him;  or,  if  it  were  certain  that  he 
had  made  a  false  step,  we  should  have  been  ready  with  our 
influence  and  countenance,  to  help  him  to  retrieve  himself." 

"You  forget,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  gently,  "that 
it  was  for  Carice?s  sake.  We  were  thinking  only  of  her." 

"  And  so  we  did  evil  that  good  might  come,"  returned 
his  wife,  somewhat  ruefully.  "  But  evil  follows  the  univer 
sal  law,  and  brings  forth  after  its  kind." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bergan,  looking  both 
surprised  and  puzzled. 

Mrs.  Bei-gan  smiled  at  him  half-pityingly,  half-sareas- 
tically.  "  Oh,  ye  men  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  if  ye  are  wise  as 
serpents,  in  matters  of  the  intellect,  ye  are  blind  as  bats,  in 
matters  of  the  heart." 

"  I  am  ready  to  admit  the  truth  of  the  abstract  proposi 
tion,"  said  Mi\  Bergan,  quizzically,  "  as  soon  as  I  am  made 
to  understand  in  what  way  I  furnish  a  proof  of  it." 

"  Don't  you  see,"  returned  Mrs.  Bergan,  seriously, 
"  that  if  ever  Carice  is  to  become  over-interested  in  Bergan, 
now  is  the  time, — now  that  he  is  presented  to  her  imagina 
tion  in  the  attractive  light  of  a  long  neglected  and  misun 
derstood,  but  patient,  persevering,  and,  finally,  all-conquer 
ing  hero  ?  " 

Mr.  Bergan  looked  as  if  he  did  see — several  things. 
"Is  that  the  reason  why  you  propose  to  throw  them  to 
gether?"  he  asked,  dryly. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Bergan,  with  perfect  com 
posure.  "The  first  thing  is  to  destroy  the  halo  with  which 
he  is  now  surrounded,  by  bringing  him  into  the  disen 
chanting  daylight  of  commonplace,  everyday  association. 
Next,  we  must  rob  him  of  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  so  far 
as  we  are  concerned,  by  frankly  confessing  that  we  were  a 
little  too  severe  upon  him  at  first,  and  by  doing  full  justice 
to  his  talents  in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  Finally,  we  must 
make  the  most  of  the  relationship." 

"  You   may   be   right,"    said   Mr.   Bergan,  after   some 


A    CONSULTATION.  .»  221 

moments  of  deep  thought.  "Though,  at  first  sight,  it 
looks  very  much  like  jumping  into  the  river,  to  avoid  the 
rain." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Bergan,  earnestly,  "  we  cannot 
keep  them  apart,  if  we  would,  as  matters  are  now  turning. 
Twice  already,  we  have  met  him  at  dinner  parties,  where 
he  is  the  lion  of  the  hour,  and  everybody  makes  much  of 
him  but  ourselves  ;  and  we  shall  continue  to  do  so,  until 
the  round  is  finished.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  wears 
his  honors  modestly ;  at  times,  I  cannot  help  feeling  proud 
of  him  myself." 

"  1  never  doubted  his  ability,  nor  overlooked  his  pleas 
ing  manners,"  said  Mr.  Bergan.  "  But  what  are  they  but 
gems  on  a  poisoned  cup,  if  the  virus  of  intemperance  be  in 
his  blood,  or  his  principles  be  unsound?" 

"  The  latter  can  hardly  be  the  case,"  remai-ked  Mrs. 
Bergan,  "  if  the  report  be  true  that  he  refuses  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  a  cause  that  he  does  not  believe  to  be  just. 
That  seems  to  argue  uncommon  strength  of  principle." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that,"  returned  Mr.  Bergan, 
shaking  his  head  dubiously.  "  Most  people,  I  find,  regard 
it  as  one  of  the  many  eccentricities  of  genius.  Others 
think  he  only  showed  his  shrewdness  in  declining  to  under 
take  a  cause  that  he  was  sure  to  lose,  after  his  brilliant 
victory  in  the  case  of  Corlew  vs.  Kenan.  Besides,  he  has 
not  announced  that  such  is  to  be  his  settled  course  of  action. 
And  if  he  did,  it  would  seem  arrogant,  in  so  young  a  man. 
It  is,  in  fact,  judging  the  cause  before  it  is  tried." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  a  man  must  needs  judge  things 
beforehand,  where  his  own  conscience  is  concerned,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Bergan,  thoughtfully.  "  You  would  not  expect 
him  to  act  first,  and  decide  afterward  whether  he  had  done 
right  or  wrong." 

O  O 

"In  judging  his  own  actions,  he  need  not  judge  those 

of  his  fellows,"  replied  Mr.  Bergan,  somewhat  magisterially. 

His  wife  could  not  help  wondering  within  herself  how. 


IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    COKDS. 

such  judgment  could  well  be  avoided,  where  a  course  of 
action  was  involved.  But  she  wisely  forbore  to  press  the 
point,  and  reverted  to  the  main  argument. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  she,  "  if  he  gets  to  visit  here  fre 
quently  and  familiarly,  we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  for  ourselves  what  his  character  really  is.  He  may 
prove  to  be  everything  that  is  safe  and  admirable  ;  or  he 
and  Carice  may  never  think  of  each  other  in  the  way  that 
we  are  contemplating.  And,  after  all,  I  think  we  might 
trust  our  daughter ;  she  has  never  shown  herself  silly  or 
wilful ;  she  is  not  likely  to  despise  our  judgment,  or  disre 
gard  our  wishes." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  we  should  do  our  whole  duty 
by  her,"  rejoined  Mr.  Bergan,  "  in  the  way  of  prevention 
as  well  as  cure.  In  such  matters,  parental  commands  gen 
erally  come  too  late  to  forestall  mischief;  the  most  that 
they  do  is  to  prevent  it  from  going  any  farther." 

"  True,"  replied  Mrs.  Bergan,  quietly.  "  And  I  confess 
that  I  might  have  been  more  puzzled  what  to  do,  if," — 
Mrs.  Bergan  made  a  slight  pause,  to  give  her  words  the 
greater  effect  (like  a  wise  woman,  she  had  kept  her  strong 
est  argument  until  the  last), — "  if  I  were  not  tolerably  cer 
tain  that  he  is  already  engaged — or,  at  least,  likely  to 
become  so — to  Astra  Lyte." 

"  That  alters  the  case,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  thought 
fully.  "  But  what  reason  have  you  for  thinking  so  ?  " 

"  Miss  Fcrrars  was  here  last  evening,  and  she  told  me 
— in  confidence,  you  know — that  she  had  no  doubt  of  it 
whatever.  Her  window  overlooks  Astra's  studio,  and  she 
says  that  she  often  sees  him  there,  helping  Astra  about  her 
work,  or  watching  her  with  the  most  absorbing  interest,  or 
talking  to  her  witli  a  very  tell-tale  eai-nestness." 

"  It  would  hardly  be  received  as  evidence  in  a  court  of 
justice,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  smiling,  "  though  it  sounds  sug 
gestive.  But  Miss  Ferrars  is  given  to  gossip — '  in  confi 
dence,'  as  you  say." 


A   CONSULTATION.  223 

His  wife  laughed.  "  Of  course  she  is ;  else  I  should 
never  have  heard  of  this  pleasant  probability.  For  both 
pleasant  and  probable  it  certainly  is.  Astra  is  turning  out 
a  wonderfully  fine,  talented  girl ;  and  she  and  Mrs.  Lyte 
have  been  Bergan's  fast  friends  and  defenders,  all  along. 
How  can  he  show  his  gratitude  more  gracefully  than  by 
marrying  her  ?  " 

"  Does  Carice  know  of  this  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bei'gan,  after 
a  moment. 

"  Yes ;  Miss  Ferrars  told  me  in  her  presence,  and  greatly 
shocked  her  by  doing  so.  She  thinks  it  wrong  to  connect 
names  so  carelessly." 

"  She  is  right,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  emphatically. 

"At  the  same  time,"  continued  Mrs.  Bergan,  "she 
remarked,  that  it  would  be  a  very  nice  thing,  if  it  were 
only  true.  And  afterward  she  said  that  she  would  like  to 
renew  her  acquaintance  with  Astra ; — you  remember  that 
the  two  were  very  good  child-friends,  though  circumstances 
have  kept  them  apart,  of  late, — as  they  have  their  mothers ! 
I  really  feel  guilty  when  I  think  how  fond  I  used  to  be  of 
Catherine  Lyte,  and  how  I  have  allowed  her  to  slip  out  of 
my  life.  But  then,  we  were  both  invalids,  for  many  years, 
with  scarce  strength  enough  for  home  cares,  and  not  a  jot 
for  friendship  or  society.  Still,  I  have  all  my  old  regard 
for  her  carefully  buried  in  my  heart,  like  the  talent  in  the 
parable ;  intact,  if  not  in  a  way  to  increase.  One  of  these 
days,  I  mean  to  dig  it  up,  and  go  with  Carice  to  pay  her  a 
visit,  and  take  a  look  at  the  wonders  of  Astra's  studio." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Bergan.  "  Well !  1 
suppose  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is,  that  we  are 
to  give  Bergan  a  dinner,  and  the  freedom  of  the  house." 

"  Precisely,"  replied  Mrs.  Bergan,  nodding  her  head. 
"  And  now,  I  want  to  consult  you  about  the  invitation 
list." 

Mr.  Bergan  rose  hastily.  "  I  am  quite  content  to  leave 
that  to  you,  my  dear." 


22  i  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   COKDS. 

His  wife  caught  his  arm.  "  You  are  not  going  to  shirk 
the  responsibility  in  that  way,"  she  said,  decidedly.  "  I 
really  want  your  advice.  Am  I  to  ask  Dr.  Remy  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  like  the  man." 

"  I  cannot  see  what  you  have  against  him,  unless  it  be 
that  he  was  not  born  in  the  county,  and  you  don't  know 
his  whole  pedigree." 

Mrs.  Bergan  did  not  answer.  She  knew  her  dislike  to 
be  a  case  of  spontaneous  generation,  and  not  at  all  quali 
fied  to  give  a  lucid  account  of  itself. 

"  Besides,"  continued  her  husband,  "  he  is  Bergan's 
particular  friend." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bergan,  innocently.  "  I  did  not 
know  that  he  was  anybody's  friend." 

"Clarissa!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bergan,  rebukingly.  "I 
never  heard  Dr.  Rcmy  speak  ill  of  anybody,  in  all  my  ac 
quaintance  with  him." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  him  speak  well  of  anybody  ?  "  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Bergan, — "  well  enough,  that  is,  to  give  you 
new  interest,  faith,  delight,  in  the  person  of  whom  he 
spoke  ?  On  the  contrary,  does  he  not  somehow  manage  to 
chill  what  you  have  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that  he  talks  of  his  friends  with  the 
warm  effusion  of  a  woman,"  answered  Mr.  Bergan,  sarcas 
tically. 

"  But  only  with  the  cold  malice  of  a  man,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Bergan.  "  There  !  a  truce  !  He  shall  come,  if  only 
to  prove  what  I  have  said.  Next,  I  want  to  invite  Mrs. 
Lyte  and  Astra." 

"Very  well." 

"  And  Mr.  I<4ay,  and  Judge  and  Mrs.  Morris,  and — " 

"You  have  seven  already,"  interrupted  Mr.  Bergan, 
"  making  ten  with  ourselves  ;  which  I  hold  to  be  the  manjic 
number  for  a  dinner  party.  If  you  want  to  invite  anybody 
else,  better  wait  till  another  time." 


A    CONSULTATION.  225 

Mrs.  Bcrgan  was  wise  enough  to  be  the  bearer  of  her 
own  invitation  to  Mrs.  Lyte ;  else  it  would  scarcely  have 
been  accepted.  The  latter  had  lost  the  taste  for  society 
with  the  habit  of  it ;  nothing  short  of  the  personal  solici 
tation  of  her  old  friend,  now  asking  it  as  a  favor  to  her 
self,  and  now  urging  it  for  Astra's  sake,  would  have  induced 
her  to  give  up,  even  for  a  few  hours,  the  seclusion  that  had 
slowly  been  transformed,  for  her  as  for  most  invalids,  from 
a  grievous  necessity  into  a  calm  pleasantness. 

Thus  far,  Mrs.  Bergan  was  successful.  But  she  missed 
seeing  either  Astra  or  Bergan  ;  both  happened  to  be  out,  on 
their  respective  ways.  As  regarded  the  former,  it  did  not 
much  matter ;  but  she  was  sorry  not  to  see  Bergan,  and  utter 
the  few  graceful  words  of  apology  for  the  past,  as  well  as  of 
promise  for  the  future,  wherewith  she  had  intended  to  pre 
face  her  invitation  to  dinner,  and  inaugurate  her  new  policy. 
As  it  was,  she  could  only  leave  a  pencilled  note  of  invita 
tion  on  his  desk,  and  reserve  her  explanation  for  a  personal 
interview.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  studio,  where  she 
admired  everything  cordially,  and  with  wonderful  impar 
tiality.  Carice,  meanwhile,  was  hanging  over  the  winged 
cherub,  with  a  deep,  silent  delight  that  went  to  Mrs.  Lyte's 
heart. 

"You  will  take  such  pleasure  in  meeting  her  again  !  " 
she  said  to  Astra,  when  she  came  in,  a  few  moments  after  the 
visitors  had  gone.  "  She  is  just  the  friend  that  you  need." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that !  "  returned  Astra  wil 
fully.  "  I  sometimes  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  at  church  ; 
and  she  looks  a  great  deal  too  soft  and  dainty  and  delicate 
for  a  friend.  If  I  were  a  Roman  Catholic,  I  might  set  her 
up  in  a  corner,  and  worship  her  as  a  madonna,  or  a  saint. 
But,  being  a  Protestant,  I  really  don't  see  that  I  have  any 
need  of  her, — or  she,  indeed,  of  me !  " 

Mrs.  Lyte  shook  her  head  in  mild  reproof.     "  You  do 
say  such  strange  things,  Astra,"  said  she,  "  things  so  liable 
to  be  misunderstood." 
10* 


22G  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

"  You  do  not  misunderstand  them,  mamma,"  returned 
Astra,  fondly. 

"  No,  but  Mr.  Arling  might." 

Astra  turned,  in  surprise,  and  met  Bergan's  quiet  smile. 
He  had  come  in  just  behind  her,  and  had  heard  almost  the 
whole. 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Astra,  coolly.  "  Mr.  Arling  is  pretty 
well  used  to  my  ways,  by  this  time.  We  were  speaking," 
she  continued,  "  of  that  ineffable  combination  of  snow  and 
sunshine,  lily  and  rose,  saint  and  angel,  known  among 
mortals  by  the  name  of  Carice  Bergan.  Can  yon  even 
imagine  being  on  familiar  terms  with  her?  Or  would 
you  if  you  could  ?  Does  she  not  seem  fitter  for  a  pedestal 
or  a  shrine, — some  place  a  little  above,  or  remote  from, 
life's  ordinary  round  ?  " 

"  She  does,  indeed,"  replied  Bergan,  earnestly.  "  There 
is  a  half-unearthly  purity  about  her,  that  keeps  even  one's 
thoughts  at  a  reverent  distance.  Snow  and  sunshine ! — 
yes,  she  has  something  of  both,  a  kind  of  soft,  white  chill, 
interfused  with  a  rich  brightness,  half-golden,  half  roseate; 
— but  it  is  impossible  to  put  the  idea  into  words  !  " 

And  Bergan  turned,  musingly,  toward  his  office  door. 

Astra  looked  after  him,  for  a  moment,  and  then  glanced 
smilingly  at  her  mother. 

"  Fortunately,  there  are  such  things  as  household  divini 
ties,"  said  she. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Lyte,  wonderingly. 

But  Astra  did  not  explain. 


XIII. 

DINNER-TABLE   TALK. 

* 

LATE  wisdom  is  apt  to  taste  of  the  flower  of  folly 
whence  it  is  distilled.  So,  at  least,  thought  Mrs. 
Bergan,  when,  months  afterward,  she  looked  back 
upon  her  dinner-party,  and  seemed  to  see  in  it  the  begin 
ning  of  trouble.  But  it  is  probable  that  nothing  which  she 
could  have  done,  or  left  undone,  would  have  availed  to 
alter  the  natural,  irresistible  course  of  events.  At  the 
most,  she  may  have  hastened  its  current  a  little.  Her  din 
ner-party  only  furnished  a  convenient  point  of  meeting  for 
lives  inevitably  tending  toward  each  other,  for  influences 
long  converging,  and  certain  to  meet  at  last,  in  clash  or 
harmony.  Without  it,  there  must  needs  have  been  a  swift 
birth  of  friendship  between  Cai'ice  and  Astra,  at  their  next 
meeting ;  which  meeting  could  not  have  been  much  longer 
deferred.  Without  it,  Doctor  Remy  would  assiduously 
have  spun  his  web  for  self-advantage,  fastening  his  threads 
indifferently  to  whatever  or  whomsoever  seemed  to  promise 
the  best  support,  and  quickly  unfastening  them  whenever 
a  prop  failed  him.  Without  it,  the  hearts  of  Bergan  and 
Carice  would  sooner  or  later  have  inclined  toward  each 
other,  by  reason  of  an  instinct  truer  and  sui-er  than  mater 
nal  foresight  or  forestalling. 

The  dinner  was,  per  se,  a  success.  The  table  was  elegant 
with  glass,  silver,  and  flowers  ;  the  viands  were  the  creation 
of  one  of  those  round,  greasy  Africanesses,  who  are  born 
to  the  gridiron  not  less  indubitably  than  a  poet  to  the  lyre ; 
and  white-haired  old  Sancho  waited  with  a  blending  of 
obsequiousness  and  pomposity,  Avonderful  to  behold.  There 


228  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   COKDS. 

were  neither  culinary  failures  to  harrow  the  soul  of  the 
hostess,  nor  glass-fractures  or  sauce-spillings  to  disconcert 
her  guests. 

The  conversation  was  bright,  easy,  and  desultory,  as 
well  as  interlocutory  and  general  by  turns,  as  dinner-table 
talk  should  be.  Only  once,  and  that  quite  at  the  last,  did 
it  take  a  graver  turn  than  was  well  suited  to  the  occasion, 
or  seem  to  stir  any  ill-feeling.  In  a  pause  of  the  more  gen 
eral  conversation,  Doctor  Remy  was  heard  saying  to  Carice, 
who  sat  next  him ; — 

"  You  are  fortunate  in  being  able  to  believe  so  implicitly, 
without  ampler  pi-oof." 

"Do  you  think  the  proof  insufficient,  then?"  asked 
Carice,  with  a  little  look  of  wonder  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  To  some  minds,"  answered  Doctor  Remy,  evasively. 

"  Perhaps,"  interposed  Mr.  Islay,  whose  ears  had  been 
open  for  some  moments  toward  this  conversation, — "  per 
haps  such  minds  find  the  proof  insufficient  only  because 
they  have  not  yet  been  able  to  look  at  it  in  the  right 
light." 

"What  light  do  you  mean?"  asked  Doctor  Remy,  a 
little  doubtfully. 

"The  light  of  a  renewed  heart  and  an  obedient  life. 
No  man  apprehends  the  truths  of  Christianity  clearly,  nor 
believes  them  with  a  belief  that  is  worth  anything,  until  he 
feels  his  own  personal  need  of  them.  When  that  time 
comes,  he  catches  hold  of  them,  without  proof,  as  it  were, — 
or,  at  least,  without  other  proof  than  their  felt  adaptation 
to  that  intense  need, — -just  as  a  man  who  is  hungry  and 
thirsty  accepts  convenient  food  without  troubling  himself 
about  its  chemical  analysis.  Then,  holding  them  fast,  and 
feeling  how  perfectly  they  meet  his  wants,  what  strength* 
and  satisfaction  they  give  to  his  mind,  and  what  symmetry 
and  dignity  they  impart  to  his  life,  he  begins  to  look  back 
over  the  long  line  of  prophecy  and  testimony  for  proof, 
and  finds  it  ample.  Men  arc  prone  to  forget,  Dr.  Remy, 


DINNER-TABLE   TALK.  229 

that  the  natural  order — as  we  see  in  children — is  through 
the  heart  to  the  intellect,  not  through  the  intellect  to  the 
heart." 

"  But,"  objected  Doctor  Remy,  "  if  a  man  is  not  sen 
sible  of  any  such  personal  need,  how  is  he  to  be  made  to 
feel  it?" 

"  Who  can  tell  ?  "  responded  Mr.  Islay,  solemnly.  "  If 
the  eye  sees  no  comeliness  in  Christ,  to  desire  Him,  if  the 
heart  feels  no  void  which  craves  His  fulness,  no  pang  which 
needs  His  healing,  who  can  tell  when  the  one  will  be  opened, 
the  other  emptied  or  smitten  ?  '  The  wind  bloweth  where 
it  listeth.'  But  I  can  tell  you,  Doctor  Remy,  how  a  man 
can  postpone  the  time  of  conviction  to  the  last  moment, 
perhaps  to  the  very  end." 

"Indeed,"  answered  Doctor  Remy,  lifting  his  eyebrows. 
"May  I  ask  for  the  formula ? " 

"Simply  by  leading  a  life  of  deliberate,  habitual  sin 
and  selfishness.  There  is  nothing  like  sin  for  blinding  the 
eyes,  and  misleading  the  judgment,  in  regard  to  spiritual 
things.  Indeed,  if  I  desired  to  shake  my  own  faith  in 
Christ  to  the  very  centre,  I  know  no  way  in  which  I  could 
do  it  so  surely  as  by  committing  some  dreadful  ci'ime — 
murder,  for  instance.  All  my  views  of  life  and  death, 
earth  and  heaven,  would  at  once  become  distorted  and  con 
fused,  just  as  all  my  thoughts  and  aims  would  immediately 
take  a  new  direction." 

Mr.  Islay  being  on  the  same  side  of  the  table  as  his 
interlocutoi',  could  not  observe  the  latter's  sudden  change 
of  countenance ;  but  Bergan,  sitting  opposite,  was  surprised 
to  see  the  doctor's  face  darken  with  some  powerful  emotion, 
while  he  shot  a  furtive,  suspicious  glance  at  the  speaker. 
Yet  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  studiously  low  and  even, 
so  much  so  that  its  latent  venom  was  unnoticed  by  the  ma 
jority  of  the  party. 

"  Inasmuch,"  said  he,  "  as  Mr.  Islay  is  able  to  speak  so 
intelligently  of  religious  faith,  because  of  his  thorough  ac- 


230  IIOLDKN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

quaintance  therewith,  so,  doubtless,  his  remarks  upon  crime 
and  its  effects  are  the  outcome  of  his  own  personal  expe 
rience." 

Bergan  colored  with  indignation,  and  was  about  to  say 
something  in  sharp  rebuke  of  the  covert  insult ;  but  Mr. 
Islay  stopped  him  by  a  look,  and  a  slight,  yet  decided  ges 
ture. 

"  You  are  thinking,  doubtless,"  said  he,  mildly,  turning 
to  Dr.  Remy,  "of  the  deep  truth  that  he  who  would  teach 
successfully,  must  know  something  of  his  subject  by  expe 
rience  as  well  as  theory.  A  clergyman  certainly  does  find 
in  his  own  heart  both  the  suggestion  and  the  proof  of  the 
truths  which  he  seeks  to  enforce  upon  others.  Herein  lies 
his  fitness  for  his  office.  Out  of  seeming  weakness  comes 
real  strength.  Feeling,  or  having  felt,  in  his  own  person, 
the  power  both  of  sin  and  of  redeeming  love,  he  can  the 
better  set  forth  the  hatefulness  of  the  one,  and  the  efficacy 
of  the  other." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  ;  then,  Mrs.  Bergan  made  haste 
to  break  the  silence,  and  to  do  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  induce 
a  speedy  change  of  subject.  And  Dr.  Remy,  after  a  brief 
moodiness,  which  seemed  to  indicate  some  lingering  effect 
of  the  preceding  discussion,  suddenly  unbent  his  brow,  and 
threw  himself  into  the  new  theme  with  animation,  to  the 
immediate  enlivenment  of  the  party,  and  the  gradual  ex 
tinction  of  his  hostess's  resentment.  She  acknowledged  to 
herself  that  he  could  be  exceedingly  agreeable,  when  it 
pleased  him.  If  he  would  but  spice  his  conversation  a 
little  less  freely  with  sarcasm ! 

And  then  she  gave  the  signal  for  the  ladies  to  leave  the 
table. 

As  has  been  already  hinted,  the  more  immediate  and 
visible  result  of  the  dinner-party  at  Oakstead,  was  a  swift 
budding  and  blossoming  of  friendship  between  Carice  and 
Astra.  Despite  the  playful  disclaimer  of  the  latter,  when 
the  probability  of  such  a  consummation  had  been  men- 


DINNER-TABLE   TALK.  231 

tioned  by  her  mother,  no  sooner  did  the  two  girls  meet 
face  to  face,  the  gray  eyes  and  the  blue  ones  looking  straight 
into  each  other's  depths,  than  there  was  an  instant,  un 
looked-for  revival  of  their  childish  affection  and  confidence ; 
quickly  informed  by  a  deeper  sympathy  and  fuller  compre 
hension.  It  was  much  like  sisters — unavoidably  separated 
for  years,  but  in  whom  the  instinct  of  kinship  cannot  be 
lost — that  they  sat  talking  together,  in  a  twilight  corner  of 
the  parlor,  until  the  gentlemen  came  from  the  dining-i-oom. 
Not  only  were  there  pleasant  childhood  memories  to  recall, 
but  the  life-story  of  each  was  to  be  brought  fairly  up  to  the 
present  time,  for  the  enlightenment  of  the  other.  Astra's 
was  the  more  eventful ;  it  embraced  all  her  art-education 
and  life,  with  its  toils,  pleasures,  difficulties,  ambitions,  and 
disappointments.  Carice's  was  more  like  that  of  a  flower; 
she  had  lived  and  grown  in  the  home-precinct,  she  had  fed 
on  sunshine  and  dew,  sweet  and  right  thoughts  had  been  as 
natural  to  her  as  perfume  to  a  rose,  she  had  made  a  little 
space  very  delightsome  with  her  beauty  and  her  sweetness ; 
and  that  was  all.  Each  felt  a  very  genuine  admiration  for 
the  other ; — Carice  bent  loyally  before  Astra's  crown  of 
genius ;  Astra  held  her  breath,  half  in  awe,  half  in  tender 
ness,  before  the  aureola  that  she  saw  encircling  the  fair 
head  of  Carice.  As  for  the  "  chill "  of  which  she  had 
spoken  to  Bergan,  she  had  ceased  to  thiuk  of  it.  Carice's 
affections  were  warm  enough,  she  saw,  when  they  were 
reached.  Yet  there  was  something  about  her  too,  which 
she  would  still  have  been  forced  to  call  chill,  for  want  of  a 
better  word, — that  indefinable  quality  which  is  inseparable 
from  anything  at  once  white  and  pure, — a  pearl,  a  star,  or 
the  white  wing  of  a  dove. 

As  a  natural  consequence  of  this  friendship,  Carice  came 
often  to  Astra's  studio.  Not  infrequently  she  met  Bergan 
there.  Remembering  Miss  Ferrar's  statement,  and  giving 
it  more  credit  than  she  .was  really  aware  of,  she  wondered, 
sometimes,  that  she  could  detect  no  sign  of  a  secret,  or  tacit, 


HOLDER  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

understanding  Between  him  and  Astra.  Their  manner  to 
each  other  was  most  frank  and  kind,  but  it  seemed  totally 
devoid  of  any  lover-like  quality.  She  finally  settled  it  in 
her  mind  that  no  engagement  existed  as  yet ;  but  she  also 
decided  that,  inasmuch  as  they  were  admirably  fitted  for 
each  other,  it  was  sure  to  come,  in  good  time.  Nothing 
better,  she  thought,  in  her  innocent  heart,  could  well  be 
devised  for  either. 

Astra,  meanwhile  was  watching  F>ergan  and  Carice  with 
as  warm  an  interest,  and  a  far  more  penetrating  glance ; 
and  often  she  smiled  to  herself  over  the  discoveries  that  she 
made.  To  her,  they  appeared  to  be  drifting  as  surely,  if  un 
consciously,  down  the  smooth,  gliding  current  of  love,  as 
could  be  desired.  She  was  glad  to  have  it  so.  She  believed 
them  to  be  true  counterparts,  needing  each  to  be  completed 
by  the  other.  Bergan  had  strength,  nobleness,  enthusiasm  ; 
Carice  had  sweetness,  purity,  repose  ;  how  beautiful  and  fit 
the  union,  how  symmetrical  the  result !  There  was  a  genu 
ine  artistic  joy  in  the  thought. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  forgot  to  watch  them.  Sud 
denly,  or  gradually,  she  knew  not  which,  a  magical  change 
had  been  wrought  in  her  surroundings ;  old  things  had 
vanished,  all  things  had  become  new.  A  new  sky,  a  new 
earth, — stars  and  cloud-shapes  of  bewitching  vagueness  and 
softness, — scenery  of  wondrous  coloring  and  surpassing 
loveliness, — lights  that  were  tenderer  than  any  shadows, 
and  shadows  that  were  only  subdued  lights  ; — of  what  were 
these  things  the  signs  ?  Had  she  also  been  drifting,  and 
whither  ? 


PART  THIRD. 

THE   IN-GATHERING. 


I. 


UNFOLBINGS. 

SPRING  was  abroad  in  the  land.  No  one  could  tell  just 
when  she  had  stolen  into  the  woods  and  gardens,  and 
begun  her  pleasant  labors,  but  there  was  no  question 
about  the  fact  of  her  presence  and  industry.  Everywhere, 
there  were  the  tender  green  of  newborn  foliage,  and  the  varied 
odors  of  opening  buds  and  blossoms.  The  new  leaves  of 
the  ilex  trees  had  quietly  pushed  off  the  old  ones.  The 
hedges  were  thick-sown  with  the  white  stars  of  the  Cherokee 
rose.  The  passion-vine  trailed  its  purple  garments  along 
the  fences.  Houstonias  spread  a  soft  blue  haze  over  the 
grass.  Wild  plum  and  cherry  trees  flung  drifts  of  fragrant 
snow  along  the  road  side.  The  air  was  faint  with  perfume 
from  the  ivory  censers  of  the  magnolia,  swinging  dreamily 
overhead.  Wherever  a  vine  could  cling  and  climb,  there 
was  a  seemingly  miraculous  outburst  of  foliage  and  flowers  ; 
every  dry  stick  and  stem  became  a  leafy  thyrsus,  every 
crumbling  stump  a  green  and  garlanded  altar. 

Mrs.  Lyte's  great,  irregular  thicket  of  a  garden  was 
quick  to  feel  the  genial  influence,  and  to  twine  and  twist 
itself  into  a  denser  tangle  than  ever.  Rose  bushes  laughed 
the  virtue  of  economy  to  scorn,  with  their  perfumed  afflu 
ence  of  pink  and  crimson  and  yellow.  Pomegranates  burst 


234:  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

into  scarlet  flames;  mimosas  tossed  aloft  feathery  balls  of 
many  hues.  Jessamines  and  honeysuckles,  holding  up  vases 
of  gold,  to  catch  every  sunbeam,  ran  hither  and  thither 
at  their  own  sweet  will.  So  did  tiny  green  lizards,  with 
scarlet  throats,  and  swift  chameleons,  with  curious  intelli 
gent  eyes.  The  air  was  tuneful  with  the  flight  and  song  of 
bees  and  humming-birds,  cooing  doves,  and  shining-winged 
spindles.  Manifold,  in  truth,  were  the  garden's  delights  : 
varied  sound  and  color  and  perfume,  cheerful  radiance  and 
gentle  gloom,  unobtrusive  companionship  and  soft  seclu 
sion,  were  all  to  be  found  within  its  pleasant  compass. 

And,  as  the  days  grew  long  and  warm  with  the  Spring's 
advance,  Bergan  now  and  then,  growing  weary  of  the  con 
finement  and  monotony  of  his  office,  took  his  Blackstone,  or 
Kent,  or  whatever  might  be  the  legal  authority  under  ex 
amination,  and  gave  himself  the  refreshment  of  an  hour's 
reading,  iu  one  of  the  garden's  shady,  sequestered  nooks. 
Doing  this,  one  sultry  afternoon  in  May,  the  drowsy  influ 
ence  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  soothing  murmurousness 
of  the  insects'  song,  soon  proved  too  potent  for  the  logical 
connection  of  the  learned  legal  thesis ;  there  were  unac 
countable  gaps  between  fact  and  deduction ;  and,  going 
back  to  pick  up  the  broken  thread,  Bergan  lost  it  alto 
gether.  Sleep  had  stolen  upon  him  through  the  dusky 
foliage,  and  she  held  him  fast  until  the  latest  sunbeam, 
through  a  convenient  aperture  in  the  verdant  walls,  laid 
its  light  finger  on  his  eyelids. 

Waking  suddenly,  but  completely,  hushed  voices,  pro 
ceeding  from  a  neighboring  thicket,  met  his  ear. 

"  Impossible,  Felix." 

"  But,  Astra,—" 

Had  there  been  danger  in  those  low,  earnest  accents, 
Bergan  could  scarcely  have  started  up  more  quickly  and 
cautiously,  nor  have  fled  from  them  faster.  As  he  ex 
pected  and  desired,  the  low  boughs  closing  and  rustling 
behind  him,  made  what  followed  inaudible,  lie  was  loath 


UNFOLDINGS.  235 

to  hoar  another  word.  He  felt  almost  guilty  for  having 
heard  so  much.  Those  subdued,  confidential  tones,  those 
quietly  spoken  Christian  names,  had,  of  themselves,  been  a 
startling  revelation.  For,  notwithstanding  her  frank,  easy, 
affable  deportment  toward  those  who  came  within  her 
sphere,  Astra  Lyte  knew  well  how  to  hedge  herself  round 
with  a  maidenly  dignity  that  kept  familiarity  at  a  distance. 
She  was  not  the  kind  of  giii  whose  Christian  name  finds  its 
way  easily  to  unaccustomed  lips.  Despite  his  own  resi 
dence,  for  a  considerable  time,  under  the  same  roof,  and  the 
frank  and  friendly  intercourse  which  had  grown  out  of  it, 
— despite,  too,  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Lyte  often  called  him  her 
son,  and  Cathie  was  wont  to  spring  to  his  arms  as  to  those 
of  a  brother, — it  had  never  occurred  to  himself  to  call  her 
anything  less  formal  than  "  Miss  Lyte."  Nor  would  it  have 
clone  to  Dr.  Remy,  he  felt  sure,  without  the  sufficient  wai-- 
rant  of  a  close  and  tender  relation.  This  premise  being 
established,  the  conclusion  that  such  a  relation  existed  was 
unavoidable. 

And,  looking  back  over  the  events  of  the  past  few 
weeks,  Bergan  was  amazed  to  see  with  what  an  amount  of 
corroboratory  evidence  he  was  unexpectedly  furnished. 
Not  only  did  numberless  glances,  tones,  and  actions,  bear 
ing  directly  upon  the  case,  start  suddenly  into  view,  but, 
just  as  the  landscape  through  which  one  passes  presents  new 
outlines,  new  features,  and  a  new  sentiment,  in  a  backward 
survey,  so  these  things  assumed  new  faces  and  a  new  mean 
ing,  in  his  review  of  them.  Once  or  twice,  of  late,  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  Astra  was  scarcely  at  her  ease,  in  Dr. 
Remy's  presence  ;  he  now  understood  that  this  constraint 
came  of  affection,  fearful  of  betraying  itself,  and  not,  as  ho 
had  imagined,  of  some  newborn  distrust  or  dislike.  An 
terior  to  this,  he  had  observed  that  the  doctor's  visits  to 
Miss  Lytc's  studio  were  much  more  frequent  than  formerly, 
and  that  he  was  making  an  obvious  enough  attempt  to 
commend  himself  to  her  favor  by  a  more  cordial  and  con- 


236  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKDS. 

stant  interest  in  her  work,  as  well  as  by  exercising  a  more 
careful  circumspection  over  his  conversation.  His  cynicism 
vanished,  or  veiled  itself,  before  the  rich  glow  of  her  enthu 
siasm.  His  satire  spared  her  generous  ambition.  His 
scepticism,  though  not  less  frank,  Avas  less  hostile  and  in 
veterate  ;  and  often  it  resolved  itself  into  a  kind  of  weary 
and  wistful  sadness,  as  if  it  were  less  a  choice  than  a  mis 
fortune,  and  would  gladly  exchange  itself  for  something 
better,  if  it  only  knew  how.  At  such  times,  Bergan  him 
self  was  sensible  of  a  singular  charm  in  his  conversation,  a 
kind  of  autumn-night  splendor ;  chill,  lustrous  moonlight, 
mystical  shadow,  and  vague  mournfulness,  blending  into 
one,  irresistible  fascination.  No  doubt,  Astra  had  been 
made  to  feel  it  still  more  keenly ;  no  doubt,  too,  she  had 
been  led  to  believe  that  whatever  was  amiss  in  the  doctor's 
beliefs  would  yield  readily  to  her  influence, — that  he  would 
prove  scarcely  less  plastic  in  her  hands  than  the  clay  where 
with  she  was  wont  to  deal  so  cunningly. 

Yet  Bergan  could  not  help  wondering  a  little  at  the 
doctor's  ready  success.  Astra's  genius,  he  thought,  should 
have  saved  her  from  any  hasty  bestowal  of  her  affections. 
lie  did  not  know  that,  in  this  regard,  a  woman  of  genius 
differs  little  from  the  most  commonplace  of  her  sisters.  She 
gives  her  affections  as  trustfully,  and  flings  herself  away  as 
freely,  as  the  silliest  of  them  all. 

Having  gotten  to  this  point  in  his  meditations,  and  also 
to  the  middle  of  the  open  field,  back  of  the  garden,  Bergan 
could  not  help  turning  and  looking  toward  the  thicket,  the 
neighborhood  of  whick  he  had  so  hastily  quitted.  His  face 
grew  troubled  and  anxious,  as  he  gazed.  Was  Doctor 
Remy  anywise  worthy  of  the  heart  that  he  had  won  ?  Bergan 
shook  his  head  ruefully,  as  he  asked  himself  this  question. 
Without  intent  or  wish  of  his  own — in  spite,  even,  of  some 
strenuous  efforts  to  the  contrary — a  deep  distrust  of  the 
doctor  had  rooted  itself  in  his  mind.  Though  it  gave  but 
scanty  justification  of  itself  to  his  intellect,  and  was  not  al- 


UNFOLDINGS.  237 

lowed  to  show  itself  in  his  actions;  though,  now  and  then, 
lie  made  a  sturdy  effort  to  uproot  it,  and  cast  it  out,  as  an 
ungenerous  return  for  kindness,  or  something  that  looked 
like  it ;  it,  nevertheless,  kept '  its  ground,  and  quietly 
strengthened  itself  there.  It  did  not  fail,  now,  to  thrust 
itself  into  view,  as  a  partial  answer  to  his  question.  The 
bright  spring  landscape,  with  its  crowded  leaf  and  bloom, 
and  its  rich  promise  of  fruit,  seemed  to  darken  with  a 
shadow  from  Astra's  future,  as  thus  revealed  to  him. 
Must  the  promise  of  seed-time  and  harvest  fail,  then,  only 
in  the  moral  world  ? 

Though  Bergan,  driven  by  a  nice  sense  of  honor,  had 
fled  so  pi'ecipitately  from  the  voices  and  the  neighborhood 
of  the  lovers,  there  is  no  reason  why  the  reader  may  not 
return  thither,  and  see  what  is  to  be  learned  from  their  con 
versation. 

"  I  cannot  think  it  right,"  said  Astra,  "  to  leave  mother 
in  ignorance  any  longer." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,"  asked  Doctor  Remy,  reproach 
fully,  "  that  I  would  ask  you  to  do  anything  wrong  ?  " 

Astra  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Perhaps  it  then  and 
there  occui'red  to  her,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  doctor's 
standard  of  right  was  likely  to  differ  from  her  own,  in  the 
same  ratio  as  his  religious  faith. 

O 

Doctor  Remy  did  not  wait  for  the  tardy  answer.  Put 
ting  his  arm  round  Astra,  he  drew  her  head  on  to  his 
shoulder.  The  movement  might  have  been  prompted  by 
tenderness ;  none  the  less,  it  had  the  effect  to  take  his  face 
out  of  her  line  of  vision. 

"  All  my  life  long,  Astra,"  said  he,  in  a  deep,  moved 
tone — (it  is  often  easier  to.put  a  desired  note  into  the  voice, 
than  a  corresponding  expression  into  the  face) — "  all  my 
life  long,  I  have  had  a  strange  desire  to  be  trusted, — trusted 
implicitly.  Faith  without  sight— blind,  unquestioning  faith 
— is  to  me  one  of  the  most  beautiful  as  well  as  desirable 
things  on  earth  ;  all  the  more  so,  perhaps,  that  it  is  not 


238  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

given  to  me  to  feel  it.  But  it  has  always  been  my  dream, 
my  hope,  to  inspire  it.  In  my  ideal  picture  of  the  woman 
whom  I  should  love,  it  was  always  her  consummate,  irresis 
tible  charm.  Must  I  now  make  up  my  mind  to  do  without 
it?" 

Astra  was  touched.  "  If  it  did  not  seem  to  be  wrong  !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "That  is  not  trust,"  said 
he,  "  at  least,  not  the  trust  that  I  mean.  Who  can  so  order 
circumstances  that  they  shall  never  seem  to  condemn  him  ? 
But  the  faith  of  which  I  speak,  having  once  assured  itself 
of  the  integrity  of  its  beloved,  never  again  admits  it  to  be 
an  open  question." 

Astra  was  silent.  The  doctor  heaved  a  heavy  sigh. 
"  I  see  that  I  am  not  to  realize  my  ideal,"  said  he.  "  Well, 
it  cannot  be  helped.  I  will  give  you  the  explanation  that 
you  need.  Perhaps,  being  satisfied,  in  this  instance,  that  I 
have  a  good  reason  for  what  I  do,  you  will  be  able  to  trust 
me  hereafter." 

"  I  will,  indeed  I  will !  "  exclaimed  Astra,  eagerly. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,"  pursued  the  doctor,  "  that  you 
compel  me  to  betray  a  trust — your  mother's  trust." 

Astra's  cheek  flushed.  She  had  been  miserable  at  the 
idea  of  keeping  anything  from  her  mother ;  was  she,  then, 
the  one  really  excluded  from  confidence  ? 

"  Stay,"  said  she,  proudly,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  any 
thing  that  my  mother  desires  to  conceal  from  me." 

"  Then,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  it  is  impossible  for  me  to. 
explain  why  our  engagement  must  not  be  made  known,  at 
present,  to  your  mother." 

Astra  looked  bewildered,  as  well  she  might,  at  this  ap 
parently  inscrutable  complication. 

Doctor  Remy  seemed  to  take  pity  on  her  perplexity. 
"  Listen,  dear,"  said  he,  "  and  you  will  soon  undei'stand. 
Your  mother  consulted  me  professionally,  a  fortnight 
since." 


UNFOLDINGS.  239 

Astra's  cheek  grew  white  with  sudden  fear.  "  What  is 
it  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  There  is  no  immediate  danger,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and 
may  not  be,  for  years,  with  due  precautions.  But  there  is 
a  tendency  to  heart  disease  ;  and  it  is  imperative,  just  now, 
that  she  should  not  be  agitated.  And  this,  Astra,  is  the 
reason  why  she  must  not  hear  of  our  engagement,  for  some 
time  to  come." 

Astra  looked  down  thoughtfully.  "  I  think  you  are 
mistaken,"  said  she.  "  I  believe  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
her  to  know  that  my  future  is  in  such  good  hands." 

"  Doubtless,  that  would  be  the  ultimate  effect,"  replied 
Doctor  Rcmy  ;  "but  there  would  be  emotional  excitement, 
at  first,  more  than  is  good  for  her ; — so  much  that  I,  as  a 
physician,  am  bound  to  forbid  it." 

Astra  could  not  but  admit  that  the  prohibition  was 
just.  Mrs.  Lyte  had  seemed  very  fragile  and  feeble,  of 
late.  Astra  had  urged  that  application  to  Doctor  Remy 
which,  it  now  appeared,  her  mother  had  made,  but  in  re 
gard  to  the  results  of  which  she  had  chosen  to  keep  silence, 
— from  a  loving  wish,  probably,  to  save  her  daughter  from 
unavailing  anxiety.  Astra's  heart  swelled  at  the  thought. 

"Arc  you  sure"  she  asked,  "that  there  is  no  immediate 
danger  ? " 

"  As  sure  as  one  can  be,  in  such  cases — if  she  is  kept 
quiet." 

"And  is  there  any  probability  that  the  disease  may  be 
eventually  cured  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  possibility, — with  the  same  indispensable 
condition." 

Doctor  Remy  waited  for  a  moment,  in  order  that  Astra 
might  be  duly  impressed  with  this  answer ;  then,  he  asked 
with  a  kind  of  proud  humility ; — 

"  Have  I  justified  myself,  in  this  matter?  " 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Astra,  penitently.  "  Of  course  I 
never  really  distrusted  your  motives ;  I  only  fancied 


2iO  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

that  my  duty  to  my  mother  could  not  be  affected  by 
them." 

"You  see,"  suggested  Doctor  Remy,  "how  easy  it  is 
to  be  misled  by  appearances,  even  with  the  best  intentions. 
The  faith,  of  which  I  used  to  dream,  would  never  have 
fallen  into  that  error." 

"  I  will  try  to  have  it,  hereafter,"  said  Astra. 

"  And  yet,"  returned  Doctor  Remy,  "  you  will  doubt 
less  insist  xipon  a  further  explanation  of  the  reason  why  I 
do  not  wisli  our  engagement  to  be  known  to  the  outside 
world." 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  not,"  returned  Astra,  glad  of  an  op 
portunity  of  proving  that  she  was  neither  so  distrustful, 
nor  so  curious,  as  he  believed.  "  Of  course,  the  outside 
world  must  Avait  till  mother  is  informed ;  she  has  the  right 
to  the  first  telling.  If  you  have  any  other  reason  for  keep 
ing  the  matter  secret,  I  do  not  seek  to  know  it." 

Could  Astra  have  seen  the  look  of  triumph  in  Doctor 
Remy's  face,  she  would  have  been  startled.  But  he  only 
said,  quietly, — 

"  Thank  you  for  so  much  trust."  And,  after  a  moment, 
he  added, — "  As  you  say,  it  is  your  mothei-'s  right  to  know 
first.  Of  course,  then,  you  will  not  indulge  in  any  confi 
dences  to  intimate  friends." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Astra,  a  little  surprised.  "  In 
deed,  I  have  none, — except,  perhaps,  Carice  Bergan." 

"  I  would  not  mention  it,  even  to  her,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  do  not  intend  to,"  replied  Astra,  decidedly.  "  But  I 
must  go  in ;  mother  will  miss  me." 


II. 

THE    FOUND ATIOTsTS   FAIL. 

ASTRA'S  light   form  being  quickly  lost  behind   the 
intervening  foliage,  Doctor  Remy  turned  slowly 
and  meditatively  toward  his  office ;   which,  inas 
much  as  it  had  been  built  for  the  use  and  behoof  of  the 
late  Doctor  Lyte,  possessed  its  own  door  of   convenient 
communication  with  the  garden. 

Given  opportunity,  social  equality,  and  a  fine,  unremit 
ting  tact,  and  it  would  seem  that  any  man  can  marry  any 
woman,  whose  affections  are  free.  Else,  it  would  be  hard 
to  understand  how  Doctor  Remy  could  have  found  his  way 
into  the  heart  of  Astra  Lyte  ;  unless  indeed,  as  is  fre 
quently  the  case,  their  very  dissimilarity  should  have  con 
stituted  a  principle  of  attraction  ;  character  has  its  own 
laws  of  effective  contrast.  Astra  was  enthusiastic,  gener 
ous,  affectionate,  with  strong  religious  instincts  and  aspira 
tions  ;  Doctor  Remy  was  cold,  selfish,  austere,  without 
reverential  sentiment,  and,  in  matters  of  faith,  an  utter 
sceptic.  But  these  traits  need  not  be  supposed  to  have 
exhibited  themselves  to  Astra  in  their  naked  unloveliness. 
To  her  imagination,  doubtless,  they  took  the  fairer  form  of 
a  calm  temperament,  and  great  force  and  firmness  of  char 
acter,  allied  to  a  keen  and  critical  intellect;  which  last  must 
needs  be  allowed  to  take  its  own  appropriate  time  and  road 
to  belief  (except  as  it  seemed  willing  to  owe  something  to 
her  loving  guidance).  And  Astra  was  of  the  age  and 
character  which  are  most  prone  to  fall  down  and  worship 
human  intellect;  failing,  as  yet,  to  understand  that  it  is,  in 
itself,  of  the  earth  earthy,  and  really  noble  and  admirable 
11 


242  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

only  as  it  is  enlightened  by  the  spirit  of  God.  She  was 
dazzled  and  fascinated  by  the  extent  and  variety  of  Doctor 
Remy's  attainments,  and  the  range  and  freedom  of  his 
ideas.  To  talk  with  him  was  like  drawing  the  curtain  and 
opening  wide  the  window  on  a  wintry  evening,  admitting 
free,  frosty  air,  and  giving  a  far  outlook  over  bleak,  white 
hills  and  leafless  forests.  Nor  did  it  alarm  her  that  the  air 
was  much  too  fresh  and  chill  to  be  breathed  long  with 
comfort  or  safety,  and  the  landscape  drearily  bare  and 
skeleton-like,  since  the  doctor  was  always  ready,  at  her 
slightest  sign,  to  drop  window  and  curtain,  and  turn  back 
with  her  to  Avarmer  precincts  and  gentler  themes. 

And  so,  it  had  come  to  pass  that,  as  Doctor  llemy 
walked  up  the  shady  garden  walk,  he  had  good  reason  to 
congratulate  himself  upon  the  success,  thus  far,  of  his 
plans.  Not  only  was  Astra  won,  but  she  had  consented 
to  keep  silence  about  the  wooing,  for  aAvhile.  Thus  he  was 
saved  from  the  awkwardness  of  having  to  account  to  Mrs. 
Lyte  for  his  unwillingness  to  have  the  engagement  made 
public.  It  would  be  difficult  to  invent  a  reason  likely  to 
commend  itself  to  her  judgment ;  yet  it  was  out  of  the 
question  to  give  her  the  real  one, — namely,  his  reasonable 
doubt  Avhether  he  should  be  altogether  acceptable  to  Major 
Bergan  as  the  future  husband  of  that  gentleman's  heiress, 
and  so,  in  some  sense,  as  his  heir  ;  and  his  consequent  fear 
lest  the  will  in  her  favor  should  be  set  aside.  Such  a  con 
fession  might  give  a  mercenary  tinge  to  his  suit,  in  Mrs. 
Lyte's  eyes,  which  he  wisely  deprecated.  So  far  as  he 
kneAV,  neither  she  nor  her  daughter  had  ever  heard  of  the 
Major's  declaration  of  his  gracious  intentions  toward  the 
latter ;  or,  if  they  had,  they  regarded  it  only  as  a  meaning 
less  ebulition  of  his  rage  at  Bergan  Arling.  Such,  in  truth, 
would  the  doctor  himself  have  thought  it,  except  for  cer 
tain  later  inquiries  respecting  Miss  Lyte,  put  to  himself  by 
the  Major ;  Avhich  seemed  to  show  that  the  matter  had  not 
escaped  his  memory.  Besides,  in  consideration  of  the  Ma- 


THE    FOUNDATIONS   FAIL.  243 

jor's  bitter  resentment  toward  his  brother  and  nephew, — 
extending,  apparently,  to  everybody  connected  with  either, 
— no  more  eligible  heir  to  the  Bcrgan  estate  was  to  be 
found,  than  Astra  Lyte.  If  the  Major  had  made  his  will, 
as  he  threatened,  there  was  no  one,  in  the  whole  Bergan 
connection,  with  so  strong  a  claim  upon  his  favorable  con 
sideration. 

Here  the  doctor  paused,  for  a  moment,  in  his  slow  walk. 
"  If ! "  he  muttered,  peevishly.  "  To  think  that  the  whole 
thing  turns  on  a  miserable  '  if ! '  I  must  contrive  some  way 
of  finding  out  whether  that  will — or  any  will — was  ever 
made.  There  must  be  no  defective  nor  missing  links  in 
this  chain,  nothing  to  invite  the  meddling  of  the  cursed 
fate  which  has  followed  me  so  long.  The  Major  must  not 
be  permitted  to  die,  one  of  these  days, — by  the  interposi 
tion  of  Providence  and  delirium  tremens,  or  something 
vastly  like  it, — and  leave  me  with  an  abortive  plan  and  a 
portionless  fiancee.  To  be  sure,  I  should  not  be  long  in 
getting  rid  of  the  latter,  but  there  would  be  no  help  for 
the  former." 

His  soliloquy  had  brought  him  to  his  office  door.  Sud 
denly  bethinking  himself,  then,  that  a  certain  patient  had 
been  overlooked  in  the  catalogue  of  the  day's  duties,  he 
called  for  his  horse,  and  set  out  to  make  good  the  omis 
sion. 

His  road  led  past  the  Bergan  estate.  As  he  was  gal 
loping  swiftly  onward,  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  he 
heard  an  energetic  "  Halloo  !  "  Pulling  up  his  horse,  and 
looking  back,  he  beheld  Major  Bergan  leaning  over  a  small 
gate,  which  opened  into  the  fields  near  the  quarter. 

"  Are  you  deaf?  "  was  his  angry  salutation,  duly  empha 
sized  with  an  oath.  "  Here  I've  been  hollering  after  you, 
till  I'm  black  in  the  face.  I  wish  I  had  saved  myself  the 
trouble ! " 

"  All  the  fault  of  my  horse's  hoofs,"  replied  the  doctor, 
good-humoredly,  as  he  turned  his  horse  toward  the  gate; 


214  HOLDEN    WITH   THE    CORDS. 

"  they  made  such  a  clatter  under  me  that  I  could  not  well 
hear  anything  else.  How  can  I  serve  you  ?  " 

Major  Bergan  hesitated.  Apparently  his  business  did 
not  come  readily  to  his  lips. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  on  your  way  to  a  patient,"  he  finally 
observed,  as  if  he  would  be  well  enough  suited  to  find  an 
excuse  for  not  broaching  it  at  all. 

His  reluctance  only  stimulated  the  doctor's  curiosity. 
"  The  case  is  not  urgent,"  said  he,  carelessly ;  "  by  and  by, 
or  even  to-morrow  morning,  will  do  just  as  well.  There  is 
no  reason  why  I  should  not  be  entirely  at  your  service — as 
I  am." 

"  Come  in,  then,"  returned  the  Major,  in  a  tone  that  was 
far  from  gracious ;  but  swinging  open  the  gate,  neverthe 
less,  for  Doctor  Remy's  admission. 

The  latter  dismounted,  led  his  horse  through,  and  slip 
ping  the  bridle  over  his  arm,  walked  by  the  Major's  side  to 
the  cottage.  On  the  way,  the  latter  vouchsafed  a  brief 
explanation  of  his  wishes. 

"  I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  the  advice  that  you 
gave  me  awhile  ago,"  said  he,  "  and — and — I've  concluded 
to  make  my  will.  So,  seeing  you  riding  by,  just  as  my  mind 
was  full  of  the  subject,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  as 
well  call  you  in,  and  have  the  thing  over  with." 

"  And  a  very  sensible  decision,"  returned  Doctor  Tlemy, 
as  quietly  as  if  he  were  not  filled  with  unexpected  delight 
that  the  information  which  he  had  hoped  to  gain  only  at 
cost  of  some  deep  and  difficult  scheming,  was  thus  placed 
within  easy  reach.  "I  only  wonder  that  you  have  not 
done  it  before." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should,"  replied  Major  Bergan, 
sharply;  "I've  always  been  strong  and  hearty, — what  had 
I  to  do  with  making  wills  ?  And,  now  that  I  think  of  it, 
what  have  I  to  do  with  it  now  ?  I'm  not  in  a  decline  yet, 
by  any  means." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  your  work,"   replied  Doctor 


TIIE    FOUNDATIONS    FAIL.  24:5 

Remy,  composedly.  "  Deathbed  wills  are  often  contested. 
No  one  will  question  your  soundness  of  mind,  at  present." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  the  Major,  decidedly.  "  If 
he  did,  he  wouldn't  be  apt  to  doubt  the  soundness  of  my 
sinews, — I'd  horsewhip  him  into  instant  conviction." 

"  Are  you  provided  with  witnesses  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor, 
when  the  Major's  chuckle  had  subsided. 

"  Witnesses  ?     How  many  does  it  want  ?  " 

"Two  are  necessary." 

The  Major  mused  for  a  moment.  "  I  can  have  them 
here  by  the  time  they  are  needed,"  said  he.  "  My  new 
overseer  at  Number  Two  will  do  for  one,  and  I'll  send  for 
Proverb  Dick  for  the  other.  Step  into  the  cottage,  and 
make  yourself  at  home  fo^  a  moment,  while  I  see  about  it." 

Doctor  Remy  flung  himself  into  the  first  chair  that 
presented  itself,  and  sank  into  a  fit  of  thought.  A  vague 
disquietude  oppressed  him,  notwithstanding  that  events 
seemed  to  be  shaping  themselves  so  much  in  accordance 
with  his  wishes.  He  believed  himself  to  be  on  the  eve  of 
victory,  or  at  least  of  a  certain  measure  of  present  success 
which  would  insure  victory ;  but  both  religion  and  philos 
ophy,  he  knew,  were  agreed  in  representing  human  expec 
tations  as  of  the  nature  of  the  flower  of  the  field,  in  various 
danger  from  the  frost,  the  knife,  and  the  uprooting  wind. 
To  this  general  testimony  he  could  add  the  special  confir 
mation  of  his  own  experience.  Like  most  men,  Doctor 
Remy  had  the  sobering  privilege  of  looking  back  upon  a 
career  of  which  the  successes  were  few,  and  the  failures 
and  disappointments  many.  The  track  of  his  earthly  pil 
grimage,  thus  far,  he  bitterly  thought,  was  tolerably  well 
strewn  with  wrecks  and  abortions. 

A  better  man,  trying  to  spell  out  the  meaning  and 
tendency  of  his  life  by  the  aid  of  a  higher  inspiration,  might 
have  found  some  comfort  in  the  review,  nevertheless.  He 
might  have  discovered  some  evidences  of  harmony  and 


2I-G  HOLDEN  wrrii  THE  COEDS. 

design  amid  seeming  discord  and  confusion,  some  solid 
foundations  showing  underneath  abortive  ruins,  some  steady 
inward  growth  of  patience  and  strength  and  hope,  in  lieu 
of  an  outward  harvest  of  earthly  possessions.  He  might 
have  discerned,  with  awe  and  humility,  that  sometimes  he 
had  builded  better  than  he  knew,  because  building  in 
accordance  with  a  certain  overruling  design,  of  which  he 
now  first  began  to  catch  faint  and  partial  glimpses.  But 
such  consolation  was  not  allowed  to  Doctor  Remy.  In  his 
past,  all  was  incomplete,  confused,  and  unsatisfactory.  He 
had  not  gained  what  he  sought,  and  nothing  better  had 
come  to  him  through  its  loss.  For  many  years  of  time, 
and  an  uncommon  measure  of  talent,  he  had  scai'ce  any 
thing  to  show  of  what  he  considered  life's  highest  prizes — 
wealth,  position,  influence.  He  set  himself  seriously  to 
discover  why.  And,  for  one  moment,  he,  too,  had  a  chill 
perception  of  a  certain  unity  and  sequence  in  the  debris 
left  behind  him,  unperceived  before ;  which  seemed  to  show 
that,  though  he  had  served  his  own  ends  but  poorly,  he 
had  none  the  less  helped  to  forward  some  extended  scheme, 
whereof  he  had  known  nothing  at  the  time,  and  could  now 
discern  only  the  most  fragmentary  outline.  But  Doctor 
Remy  quickly  shook  himself  free  of  this  notion,  witli  a 
smile  at  his  own  absurdity. 

Why,  then,  he  asked  himself,  had  he  failed?  Because 
of  his  mistakes,  no  doubt.  Let  every  man  bear  the  blame 
of  his  own  acts,  and  not  try  to  throw  it  off  on  his  neigh 
bors,  or  that  convenient  scapegoat,  Providence.  Looking 
back,  he  could  discern  many  a  point  (and  notably  one), 
where  he  had  committed  a  grave  error.  But  his  mistakes 
had  been  his  instructors,  nevertheless.  He  had  gained 
from  them  knowledge  that  should  stand  him  in  good  stead 
yet.  To  his  former  qualities  of  boldness,  energy,  perse 
verance,  and  skill,  he  now  added  the  experience  that  could 
use  them  to  better  effect.  It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if 
he  could  not  henceforth  command  success. 


THE   FOUNDATIONS   FAIL.  247 

He  had  just  reached  this  conclusion  when  Major  Bergan 
joined  him.  Ample  provision  of  lights,  paper,  pens,  and  ink, 
being  then  placed  upon  the  table,  together  with  the  inevit 
able  brandy  bottle,  the  two  gentlemen  sat  down  opposite 
each  other,  and  Doctor  Remy  began  his  task  of  drawing  up 
the  will.  He  first  wrote  the  usual  legal  preamble,  in  a  clear, 
rapid  hand,  and  read  it  aloud  for  Major  Bergan's  approval. 
Some  small  legacies  followed,  taken  down  nearly  verbatim 
from  the  Major's  dictation.  Doctor  Remy  then  waited,  for 
some  moments,  with  his  pen  suspended  over  the  paper, 
while  the  Major  seemed  trying  vainly  to  arrange  his 
thoughts. 

"I  don't  quite  know  how  to  word  the  next,"  said  he, 
at  length,  "  you  must  put  it  into  shape  yourself.  I  hold 
a  mortgage  of  the  place  where  Catherine  Lyte  lives ;  and  I 
want  it  cancelled,  at  my  death,  in  her  favor,  or,  if  she  does 
not  survive  me,  in  favor  of  her  daughter  Astra." 

"You  surprise  me,"  remarked  Doctor  Remy,  as  he 
began  to  write;  "I  have  always  understood  that  the  place 
was  free  from  incumbrance." 

"  You  understood  wrong,  then,"  replied  Major  Bergan. 
"Though,  for  anything  that  I  know,  Catherine  Lyte  may 
think  so  herself.  You  see,  Harvey  got  into  difficulties 
eight  or  nine  years  ago,  and  I  lent  him  money,  and  took  a 
mortgage  on  the  place.  He  kept  the  interest  paid  up  until 
his  death;  and  since  then,  nothing  has  been  said  to  me 
about  either  interest  or  principal ;  from  which  I  concluded 
that  Catherine  did  not  know  of  the  fact.  And  as  I  felt 
sorry  for  her,  I  decided  to  say  nothing  about  it  myself,  as 
long  as  I  was  not  in  need  of  the  money,  nor  likely  to  be. 
But  it  will  not  do  her  any  harm  to  know,  after  I  am  dead, 
that  I  have  been  kinder  to  her  than  she  knew  of." 

Doctor  Remy  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "  I  suspect,"  said 
he,  "  that  it  would  not  he  well  for  her  to  offend  you." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Major  Bergan,  com 
placently.  "  She  did  offend  me,  when  she  took  my  nephew 


24:3  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

in ;  and  I  came  pretty  near  foreclosing  then.  But  Maumcr 
Rue  convinced  me  that  she  could  not  afford  to  refuse  a 
good  offer  for  her  rooms ;  and  moreover,  as  Harry  only  had 
his  office  there,  and  took  his  meals  at  the  hotel,  she  need 
not  have  much  more  to  do  with  him  than  I  did,  if  she  did 
not  choose." 

Doctor  Remy  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  enlighten 
the  Major  in  regard  to  Bergan's  familiarity  with  the  family 
of  Mrs.  Lyte,  since  such  a  disclosure  must  needs  militate 
directly  against  his  own  ends.  He  silently  put  the  Major's 
wish  into  correct  legal  phrase  and  form,  and  then  lifted  his 
head  with  the  question  ; — 

"What  next?" 

Major  Bergan's  face  grew  grave  and  troubled.  Thus 
far,  it  had  been  easy  work,  merely  giving  away  what  lie 
did  not  care  for,  and  should  not  miss.  But  now  that  the 
bulk  of  his  property,  real  and  personal,  was  to  come  in 
question,  he  groaned  inwardly  at  the  necessity  of  bequeath 
ing  it  to  any  one.  Did  it  not  represent  all  the  hopes,  ener 
gies,  labors  and  results  of  his  whole  life  ?  What  a  naked, 
shivering,  miserable  soul  he  would  be  without  it !  He  had 
a  feeling  that  he  should  never  be  quite  certain  of  his 
own  identity,  in  eternity,  without  the  houses  and  the 
lands,  the  negroes  and  the  gold,  for  which  he  had  lived  in 
time. 

"  Well ! "  said  Dr.  Remy,  by  way  of  reminding  him 
that  he  was  still  waiting. 

The  Major  frowned  ;  nevertheless,  after  another  moment, 
he  resumed  his  dictation. 

"I  give  and  bequeath,"  said  he,  slowly,  "my  house 
known  as  Bergan  Hall,  with  all  the  lands  thereto  pertain 
ing,  including  the  rice-plantation  known  as  '  Number  Two ; ' 
also  my  three  houses -in  the  town  of  Berganton  ;  also  my 
block  in  the  city  of  Savannah;  also  my  negroes,  horses, 
mills,  and  plantation  implements ;  also,  my  household  furni 
ture  and  other  personal  property,  including  all  bonds,  mort- 


THK    FOUNDATIONS    FAIL. 

gages,  moneys,  and  all  other  property  whereof  I  die  pos 
sessed,  to " 

Doctor  Remy  had  written  down  the  items  of  this  com 
prehensive  inventory  with  a  delight  that  he  could  scarcely 
keep  from  shining  out  in  his  face ;  and  he  now  held  his  pen 
over  the  paper,  while  the  Major  paused,  in  real  enjoyment 
of  so  timely  an  opportunity  for  pleasurable  recapitulation 
and  anticipation.  The  pause  being  a  long  one,  however,  he 
finally  raised  his  eyes  to  the  rugged  features  opposite,  and 
saw  that  they  were  tremulous  with  emotion.  Words,  too, 
soon  began  to  break  from  the  Major's  lips,  according  to  the 
habit  which  had  grown  upon  him  in  his  solitude ; — he  had 
forgotten  for  the  time,  that  he  was  not  alone. 

"  He  is  the  natural  heii-,  as  Maumer  Rue  insists,"  he 
muttered,  "and  the  only  one  justified  by  the  old  family 
precedents.  But,"  he  went  on,  as  Dr.  Remy  began  to 
tremble,  vicariously,  for  Astra's  prospects,  "he  left  me 
without  so  much  as  saying  'good  bye;'  he  did  just  what 
he  knew  I  was  most  bitterly  opposed  to ;  and  he  has  never 
come  near  me  since.  No,  he  shall  not  have  it ! — he  never 
shall  have  it,  in  spite  of  Maumer  Rue's  prophecies — I'll 
take  care  of  that !  " 

And  he  began  to  repeat  slowly,  "  bonds,  mortgages, 
moneys,  and  all  other  property  whereof  I  die  possessed,  to 
—to—" 

Again  he  paused. 

"  Why  can't  he  say  '  to  Astra  Lyte,'  and  done  with  it  ?  " 
thought  Dr.  Remy,  impatiently,  as  he  suddenly  checked  his 
pen  in  the  midst  of  the  first  curve  of  the  letter  A. 

The  Major  made  another  effort ; — "  To  my  niece,  Carice 
Bergan,"  he  concluded,  with  a  sigh. 

Doctor  Remy's  face  fell  so  suddenly,  that  it  attracted 
the  Major's  attention. 

"Well!  what  is  the  matter  now?"  he  demanded, 
sharply. 

Doctor  Remy  could  not  immediately  answer.  His  mind 
11* 


250  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

was  in  a  whirl  of  confusion,  disappointment,  and  anxiety. 
Mechanically,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  brow ;  and  the  gesture 
helped  him  to  a  plausible  explanation. 

"  A  sudden  pain,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  shaken  voice  j  "  I 
have  felt  it  several  times  of  late.  Wait  a  minute,  it  will 
soon  be  over." 

And  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  he  addressed 
himself  at  once  to  the  task  of  answering  the  difficult  ques 
tion  ; — 

What  is  to  be  done  now  ? 

It  was  well  for  him  that  he  was  accustomed  to  think 
rapidly  and  clearly,  in  the  immediate  presence  of  danger, 
that  he  was  tenacious  of  purpose  too,  and  that  his  instinct, 
in  the  midst  of  overthrow  and  ruin,  was  to  commence  at 
once  to  rebuild.  Yet,  for  some  moments,  not  an  available 
suggestion  presented  itself,  not  a  shadow  of  help  for  the 
exigency  that  had  so  unexpectedly  arisen. 

"  Then,  suddenly,  a  thought  came  to  him,  and  with  it, 
a  gleam  of  hope.  He  took  his  hands  from  his  eyes,  and 
looked  the  Major  gravely  in  the  face. 

"  Before  we  go  any  farther,"  said  he,  "  I  feel  bound  in 
honor  to  make  a  confession.  If  I  had  supposed  that  writ 
ing  your  will  was  going  to  put  me  in  such  an  awkward 
position,  I  should  certainly  have  desired  you  to  look  else 
where  for  a  lawyer.  However,  it  cannot  be  helped  now. 
Well,  the  truth  is" — he  stopped  for  a  moment,  as  if  to 
overcome  an  excessive  reluctance, — "  the  truth  is,  I  have 
long  admired  your  niece ;  and  now,  as  my  practice  is  stead 
ily  increasing,  and  I  think  I  could  take  care  of  a  wife,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  ask  permission  to  pay  her  my  ad 
dresses." 

Major  Bergan  uttered  a  prolonged  "  Whew ! "  and 
settled  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  That  alters  the  case, 
certainly,"  said  he,  after  a  brief  consideration  of  this  new 
phase  of  the  matter. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Remy,  eagerly. 


THE   FOUNDATIONS   FAIL.  251 

"  Pray — if  it  is  not  too  selfish  in  me  to  ask  it — pray  give 
Bergan  Hall  to  the  next  most  eligible  claimant,  and  leave 
me  Miss  Carice." 

The  Major  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  leaning  forward, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Doctor  Remy,  as  if  he  had  found  a  new 
and  interesting  subject  of  study. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  gravely,  "  that  you 
would  rather  have  Carice  without  Bergan  Hall  than  with 
it?" 

"  Decidedly,"  replied  Doctor  Remy.  "  I  prefer  an 
equal  match  to  an  unequal  one.  I  prefer  to  be  credited 
with  honorable  motives,  rather  than  mercenary  ones.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  pensioner  on  my  wife's  bounty.  It  is 
doubtful  if  I  could  ever  make  up  my  mind  to  address  the 
heiress  of  Bergan  Hall.  And  thus,  you  see,  if  you  persist 
in  making  Miss  Bergan  your  legatee,  you  are  playing  the 
mischief  with  my  hopes  and  plans." 

Major  Bergan  continued  to  stare,  thoughtfully,  at  the 
doctor.  He  was  beginning  rather  to  like  this  disinterested 
suitor. 

"  Have  you  any  reason  to  think  that  Carice  favors  you?" 
he  asked,  finally. 

Doctor  Remy  hesitated.  "  I  really  don't  know  how  to 
answer  that  question.  If  I  should  say  '  yes,'  in  view  of  the 
'  trifles  light  as  air,'  from  which  I  have  ventured  to  draw 
some  slight  encouragement,  I  should  seem,  even  to  myself, 
to  be  a  conceited  ass ;  and  yet,  if  you  would  only  be  good 
enough  not  to  throw  Bergan  Hall  into  the  scale  against 
me,  I  should  not  be  absolutely  without  hope." 

Major  Bergan  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  Who  will  know," 
he  asked,  "  that  Carice  is  to  have  Bergan  Hall  ?  I  expect 
you  to  keep  my  counsel  in  this  matter.  That  is  why  I 
asked  you  to  do  the  business.  I  had  an  idea  that  you 
were  closer-mouthed,  both  by  nature  and  training,  than 
those  lawyers  in  Berganton," 

"  I  shall  know  it,"  replied  Doctor  Remy,  virtuously, 


252  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  eo::;>'. 

answering  the  Major's  question,  and  taking  no  notice  of 
the  compliment  Avhich  followed  it.  "And  I  shall  know, 
too,  that  the  heiress  of  Bergan  Hall,  if  she  were  aware  of 
her  position,  might  reasonably  expect  to  find  a  better 
match  than  a  mere  country  physician." 

"  On  my  soul,"  exclaimed  the  Major,  heartily,  "  I  think 
she  might  '  go  farther  and  fare  worse  ! '  Go  on,  doctor 
and  win  her,  if  you  can  ; — you  have  my  best  wishes  for 
your  success.  Leave  Bergan  Hall  out  of  the  question ; 
indeed,  it  may  never  come  into  it.  after  all.  Carice  may 
refuse  you " 

("  Little  doubt  of  that,"  thought  the  doctor.) 

"  I  may  alter  my  will  a  dozen  times,  or  make  a  new 
one, — " 

("  You  will  have  to  be  in  a  hurry,  if  you  do,"  thought 
the  doctor  again,  grimly.) 

"At  any  rate,  I  expect  you  to  frame  that  one  so  that 
Carice's  husband,  whoever  he  may  be,  can  have  no  control 
whatever  over  the  property.  It  is  to  be  hers,  and  her 
children's,  only.  So  scribble  away  there,  at  your  best 
pace,  or  Proverb  Dick  will  be  here  before  we  get 
through." 

"  But  your  brother  Godfrey," — began  Doctor  Remy,  in 
despair,  racking  his  brains  for  some  consideration  that 
would  be  likely  to  shake  the  Major's  purpose. 

"  My  brother  Godfrey,"  interrupted  Major  Bergan, 
sternly,  "  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  matter.  I  don't 
give  the  property  to  him,  but  to  Carice.  Perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  I  had  better  just  give  her  a  life-interest  in  it,  and 
then  have  it  go  to  her  eldest  son,  who  shall  take  the  name 
of  Bergan,  and  be  christened  Harry.  Yes,  that  will  be  the 
better  way.  Write  it  down  so." 

"  But " — began  Doctor  Remy  again. 

"  Save  your  *  buts,'  until  we  get  through,"  broke  in 
Major  Bergan,  sharply.  "  I  tell  you,  Carice  shall  have  the 
place.  If  you  don't  want  her  with  it,  you  can  let  her 


THE    FOUNDATIONS    FAIL.  253 

alone.  And  if  you  can't,  or  won't,  write  my  will  to  suit 
me,  I'll  send  for  some  one  who  can  and  will." 

(This  threat  effectually  silenced  Doctor  Remy.  It  was 
essential  that  the  matter  should  not  be  taken  out  of  his 
hands,  till  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  it  could  in  nowise 
be  turned  to  his  account.  "  If  it  comes  to  the  worst,"  said 
he  to  himself,  "  it  is  something  to  have  the  document  in 
my  own  handwriting.  That  gives  me  a  better  chance  to 
furnish  a  substitute,  at  need." 

With  the  rigid  self-control  that  always  characterized 
hiji,  therefore,  he  now  put  aside,  as  far  as  might  be,  his 
own  hopes  and  plans,  and  set  himself  diligently  to  the 
work  of  completing  the  will,  in  accordance  with  the  Ma 
jor's  instructions,  and  to  his  entire  satisfaction.  He  did 
not  even  move  a  muscle  when,  in  due  time,  the  Major 
dictated  a  paragraph  to  the  effect  that  if  Carice  should  not 
survive  him,  or  should  die  without  issue,  the  estate  should 
fall  to  a.distant  cousin,  now  in  Europe,  whose  sole  claim  to 
his  consideration  appeared  to  be  that  he  bore  the  family 
name.  The  doctor  was  proof  against  any  further  shocks, 
this  evening.  Fate  had  done  her  worst  for  him,  in  forcing 
him  to  write  "  Carice  Bergan,"  where  he  had  confidently 
expected  to  write  "  Astra  Lyte,"  and  to  find  his  account 
in  so  doing. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  three  closely  written  sheets'  lay 
upon  the  table,  ready  for  the  signatures  of  the  witnesses, 
whenever  they  should  appear;  and  the  Major,  drawing  a 
long  bi-eath  of  relief,  to  see  his  lugubrious  business  so 
nearly  finished,  applied  himself  to  the  brandy  bottle  for 
appropriate  refreshment.  Doctor  Remy  sat  silent,  ab 
stractedly  toying  with  the  pen  that  had  been  making  such 
havoc  with  his  plans. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Major  Bergan's  face  with 
the  question ; — 

"  How  did  that  medicine  suit  you  ?  " 

"Admirably,"   replied  tho  Major.      "I  have  had  one 


254  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

attack  since  you  were  here, — a  tolerably  severe  one,  too, — 
but  the  second  powder  acted  like  a  charm." 

"  The  second  powder  !  "  thought  the  doctor.  "  I  am 
afraid  that  I  gave  him  too  many !  At  that  rate,  if  chance 
favors  him,  he  may  hold  on  for  a  year,  or  more." 

He  was  opening  his  lips  for  another  remark,  when  the 
door  shook  under  a  vigorous  rap ;  and  scarce  waiting  for 
the  Major's  invitation,  Dick  Causton  entered. 


III. 

BUILDING   ANEW. 

THE  new  comer  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  sight  of  Doctor 
Remy,  and  the  table  littered  with  writing  materials ; 
and  looked  with  evident  curiosity  at  the  closely 
written  sheets  of  the  will,  the  character  of  which  he  seemed 
at  once  to  discover  or  divine. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  sententiously,  nodding  his  head, — 
" '  Our  last  garment  is  made  without  pockets.' " 

Major  Bergan  shivered  as  if  he  had  felt  a  chill  breath 
from  the  mouth  of  a  tomb.  It  was  hard  to  be  so  often 
reminded  that  he  and  his  possessions  must  soon  part,  with 
small  prospect  of  meeting  again. 

"If  you  must  quote  proverbs,  Dick,"  he  exclaimed 
peevishly,  "pray  don't  quote  such  cold-blooded  ones  as 
that!" 

"  How  could  I  help  it,  when  '  it  came  to  my  hand  like 
the  bow  o'  a  pint  stoup  ? ' "  answered  Dick  Causton  coolly, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  hungrily  on  the  Major's  brandy  bottle. 

The  hint  was  successful.  Bottle  and  glass  were  imme 
diately  placed  within  his  reach,  and  he  made  haste  to  warm 
and  quicken  his  age-frosted  blood  with  a  deep  draught  of 
the  potent  liquor.  It  was  both  strange  and  sad  to  see  how 
his  eye  brightened,  his  face  grew  more  animated,  his  figure 
became  more  erect,  his  whole  frame  seemed  to  gather  vigor 
and  energy,  under  its  influence,  while  his  air  became,  if  pos 
sible,  more  mean  and  slouching  than  before.  It  was  as  if  he 
felt  conscious  himself,  and  knew  that  any  beholder  would  be 
sure  to  discover,  that  his  proper  strength  and  manhood  had 
long  since  died  out  of  him,  and  he  was  now  drawing  un- 


250  11OLDKN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

worthy  breath  and  life  from  a  source  of  which  lie  was 
thoroughly  ashamed,  though  unable  to  do  without  it. 

Major  Bergan,  meanwhile,  briefly  explained  why  he  had 
sent  for  him,  adding,  in  a  tone  that  was  meant  to  be  cour 
teous,  but  nai'rowly  escaped  condescension ; — 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  be  glad  to  do  a  favor  to  an  old 
friend  like  me,  Dick." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Richard  Causton,  heartily ;  "  es 
pecially  as  I  suspect  that  I  shall  also  be  doing  a  favor  to 
my  young  friend,  Mr.  Arling.  '  He  that  loves  the  tree, 
loves  the  branch,'  you  know." 

Major  Bergan  frowned.  "  I  don't  see  what  my  nephew 
has  to  do  with  it,"  said  he,  surlily. 

Dick  Causton  gave  him  a  look  of  surprise.  "  De  vrucht 
volt  niet  ver  van  den  stam"  said  he,  shaking  his  head. 
"That  is  to  say,  The  fruit  falls  near  the  stem.  It  isn't 
nature  for  a  man  to  leave  his  property  away  from  his  own 
blood.  It  isn't  right,  either,  in  my  opinion." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  leave  mine  away  from  my  blood," 
replied  Major  Bergan,  austerely;  "though,  if  I  were,  I 
do  not  see  that  it  is  anybody's  affair  but  my  own." 

"  Nor  I  either,"  rejoined  Dick  Causton,  coolly,  "  unless 
your  dead  ancestors  should  imagine  it  to  be  theirs.  Os 
demos  d  os  suyos  quieren, — The  devils  are  fond  of  their 
own, — and  so,  doubtless,  are  the  saints,  if  any  such  are  to 
be  found  in  your  pedigree.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  they  would  all  prefer  to  see  their  earthly  possessions 
go  clown  in  the  channel  mai'ked  out  by  nature.  Anyway,  I'm 
right  glad  to  know  that  Mr.  Ai'ling  is  to  have  his  rights, 
some  day,  fine  fellow  that  he  is !  I've  always  had  a  kind 
ness  for  him,  ever  since  I  first  gave  him  a  lift,  on  his  way 
to  you." 

Major  Bergan  looked  very  grim.  "  Yes,  Mr.  Arling 
will  have  his  rights,"  said  he,  with  stern  emphasis, — "  I've 
seen  to  that." 

Dick  Causton  glanced  from  the  Major's  face  to  the  will, 


BUILDING    AKKNV.  257 

with  an  instinctive  feeling  that  all  was  not  right,  but  could 
make  nothing  of  either.  The  one  was  dark  and  impene 
trable  ;  the  other  was  upside  down,  from  his  point  of  view. 
Apparently,  nothing  invited  attack  but  the  brandy  bottle. 
That,  he  Avas  glad  to  see,  was  not  yet  empty. 

"I  am  wasting  words,"  said  he,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders.  "A  chose  faite  conseilpris.  '  Advice  after  action  is 
like  medicine  after  death' — or  brandy  after  one  has  ceased 
to  be  thirsty." 

"  Take  another  glass,"  said  Major  Bergan. 

Dick  obeyed  with  alacrity.  The  dram  was  scarcely 
swallowed,  ere  a  tap  at  the  door  announced  the  arrival  of 
the  overseer  from  "  Number  Two," — a  tall,  lank,  taciturn 
Texan,  whom  the  Major  had  recently  taken  into  his  employ, 
as  a  short  cut  to  that  avoidance  of  the  rice  fields  which 
Doctor  Remy  had  recommended. 

The  ceremonies  of  signing  and  sealing  the  will  immedi 
ately  followed.  Dick  Causton  was  greatly  disappointed 
that  the  document  was  not  read  in  his  hearing,  as  he  had 
expected. 

"  Never  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke,  nor  sign  a  paper  Avithout 
reading  it,"  said  he,  as  he  took  the  pen  into  his  hand. 
"  How  am  I  to  tell  what  will  I  really  signed,  if  I  know 
nothing  of  the  contents  ?  However,  it's  your  risk,  not  mine," 
he  added,  hastily,  seeing  that  Major  Bergan  was  beginning 
to  look  impatient.  And,  forthwith,  he  bent  his  energies  to 
the  task  of  writing  his  name  in  a  large,  angular,  and  very 
tremulous  hand ;  and  then  shook  his  head  dubiously  over 
the  result. 

"It  looks  like  nothing  that  ever  I  wrote  before,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  laid  down  the  pen.  "But  Hand  er  hund 
om  han  er  aldrig  saa  broget, — A  dog  is  a  dog  whatever  be 
his  color, — and  so,  a  signature  must  be  a  signature  though 
it  wiggle  across  the  paper  like  a  tipsy  eel.  Perhaps  I  shall 
know  it  by  that  token,  when  I  see  it  again.  But  I  can't 
promise." 


258  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

"  I  shall  know  mine,"  observed  the  overseer,  confidently, 
as  he  lifted  the  pen. . 

Doctor  Remy  leaned  forward  with  sudden  interest.  The 
name  was  written  in  commonplace  fashion  enough,  but  it 
was  finished  with  an  odd,  complicated  flourish. 

"  Do  you  always  sign  your  name  in  that  way  ? "  he 
asked. 

"Always." 

"  It  looks  very  difficult ;  yet  you  seemed  to  do  it  with 
much  ease.  Let  me  see  the  process  again."  And  he 
pushed  a  piece  of  paper  over  to  the  man,  who,  gratified  to 
find  his  skill  so  heartily  appreciated,  scrawled  it  all  over 
with  his  sign-manual,  in  wearisome  repetition.  The  paper 
was  then  passed  from  one  to  another,  for  a  brief  examina 
tion,  and  was  finally  left  in  the  hands  of  Doctor  Remy; 
who  first  began  absently  to  roll  it  round  his  fingers,  and 
ended  by  tearing  it  in  three  or  four  pieces,  in  a  fit  of  appar 
ent  abstraction.  Nobody  noticed  that  one  of  these  found 
its  way  into  his  pocket  as  a  thing  of  possible  utility,  in  the 
future. 

He  then  rose.  "I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  go  so 
soon,"  said  he,  courteously,  "  but  a  physician's  time  is  not 
his  own.  Good  evening,  Major  Bergan,  I  am  always  at 
your  service,  and  in  any  capacity.  Good  evening,  Mr. 
Causton,  doubtless,  we  shall  meet  again." 

Dick  glanced  at  the  brandy  bottle,  and,  seeing  that  it 
was  empty,  was  taken  with  a  sudden  fancy  for  the  doctor's 
society. 

"  I'll  walk  along  with  you,  doctor,  at  least  as  far  as  our 
road  is  one,"  said  he,  rising.  "  Good  company  makes  short 
miles." 

"I  came  in  the.  saddle,"  answered  Doctor  Remy, 
"  but  we  can  be  companions  as  far  as  the  gate,  if  you 
like." 

Nevertheless,  the  -pair  did  not  separate  at  the  gate. 
Their  conversation  had  become  too  interesting,  apparently, 


BUILDING   ANEW.  259 

to  both ;  and  Dick  Causton  continued  to  walk  on  by  the 
side  of  the  doctor's  horse. 

It  was  lato  when  he  reached  his  cabin,  that  night. 
Very  suggestively,  too,  he  reeled  across  the  threshold, 
and,  missing  the  bed,  deposited  himself  heavily  on  the 
floor. 

"  Tidt  meder  man  ei  did  som  man  ml  skyde,  A  man 
does  not  always  aim  at  what  he  means  to  hit," — he  mut 
tered,  resignedly,  merely  changing  his  position  for  a  more 
comfortable  one,  and  dozing  off  to  sleep. 

Somewhere,  on  the  way — or  out  of  it — apparently,  he 
had  found  a  supplementary  brandy  bottle,  and  had  not  left 
it  until  it  was  as  empty  as  the  Major's. 

It  was  late,  too,  when  Doctor  Remy  laid  his  head  on 
his  pillow,  that  night.  And,  perhaps,  in  all  Berganton, 
there  was  no  wearier  nor  sadder  man  than  he.  One  appar 
ently  well-constructed  plan  had  just  gone  to  pieces  in  his 
hands,  without  note  of  warning.  Another  was  now  to  be 
built  up  out  of  the  fragments,  pitilessly  rejecting  whatever 
had  been  an  element  of  weakness  in  the  first.  Already,  its 
outline  had  begun  to  shape  itself  dimly  against  his  mental 
horizon.  Yet  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  linger  upon  it 
to-night.  With  the  rigid  self-control  which  he  habitually 
exei'cisecl,  he  put  aside  disappointment,  care,  and  hope,  and 
soon  slept  as  soundly  as  if  no  anxiety  rested  on  his  mind, 
no  stain  on  his  conscience. 

He  was  early  astir.  With  the  morning  light  came 
quickness  and  clearness  of  thought.  His  scheme  began 
to  look  more  distinct  and  feasible.  By  way  of  getting  it 
in  hand  at  once,  he  tapped  lightly  at  the  door  of  Astra's 
studio. 

He  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  her  befoi-e  an  easel, 
palette  and  brushes  in  hand.  She  smiled  and  blushed  at 
his  appi'oach. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  she  began,  apologeti 
cally, — "  '  A  Jack  at  all  trades,'  ct  ccetera,  but  I  really 


260  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

wanted  color  for  this  subject."  She  pointed  to  her  canvas. 
"  Do  you  recognize  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  see  that  those  are  Miss  Bergan's  eyes,"  replied 
Doctor  Remy  ; — "  all  else  is  delightfully  vague  and  sugges 
tive." 

"  And  what  eyes  they  are  !  "  exclaimed  Astra,  admir 
ingly, — not  without  a  pleasant  perception,  too,  that  she 
had  succeeded  wonderfully  well  in  putting  them  on  canvas. 

Doctor  Remy  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  was 
regarding  the  portrait  with  a  gravity  that  Astra  could  not 
imderstand, — unless,  indeed,  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  spoke,  it  was  sufficiently  to  the 
point. 

"  Yes,  they  are  very  fine  eyes,"  said  he.  "And  Miss 
Bergan  is  altogether  very  pretty, — in  an  uncommon  style, 
too.  It  is  surprising  that  she  has  remained  heartfree  so 
long." 

Astra  looked  at  him  with  soft,  smiling,  amused  eyes. 
"  Heartfree  !  As  much  as  I  am,"  said  she. 

Doctor  Remy  gave  her  a  questioning  look. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  anything  about  it,"  said 
she,  laughingly.  "  Use  your  eyes,  sometimes,  in  watching 
your  neighbors,  as  I  do." 

"  Who  is  my  neighbor  ?  "  asked  Doctor  Remy,  smiling. 

"  The  proper  question  !  "  laughed  Astra.  "  In  this  case, 
you  need  not  journey  beyond  this  roof,  to  find  him." 

Doctor  Remy's  eyes  lit  with  a  sudden,  strange  gleam. 
"  Do  you  know  it  is  so  ?  "  he  asked,  quickly. 

"  No,  I  cannot  quite  say  that ; — I  doubt  if  she  knows  it 
herself  yet.  But  I  believe  it,  all  the  same." 

Doctor  Remy  watched  her  absently  for  some  moments, 
then  made  a  few  curt,  critical  remarks  about  her  work, 
bade  her  a  cool  good  morning,  and  withdrew. 

Astra  looked  after  him,  with  a  troubled,  wondering  ex 
pression. 

"  What  has  come  over  him  ?  "  she  asked  herself.    "  How 


BUILDING   ANEW.  261 

have  I  offended  him  ?     Or  was  it  only  my  fancy  that  he 
seemed  so  cold  and  strange?" 

Before  Doctor  Horny  began  his  professional  rounds,  that 
morning,  he  had  sketched,  in  outline,  the  main  features  of  a 
new  plan  for  the  acquisition  of  Bergan  Hall.  The  minor 
details  he  wisely  left  to  the  suggestions  of  time  and  cir 
cumstance. 

One  of  these  proved  to  be  very  close  at  hand.  As  he 
drove  mechanically  through  the  principal  street  of  Bergan- 
ton,  revolving  various  probabilities  and  possibilities  in  his 
mind,  and  trying  to  make  some  provision  for  each,  he 
espied  Miss  Ferrars  coming  up  the  sidewalk, — easily  recog 
nizable,  at  almost  any  distance,  by  her  peculiarly  mincing 
and  swaying  gait.  In  all  similar  encounters  with  the 
slightly  faded  maiden, — whom  he  shrewdly  suspected  of 
designs  upon  his  bachelor  liberty, — it  had  been  his  wont  to 
slide  swiftly  past,  with  a  low  and  deprecatory  bow,  sugges 
tive  of  his  deep  regret  that  the  urgency  of  his  haste  denied 
him  the  pleasure  of  stopping  to  inquire  after  her  health. 
On  this  occasion,  therefore,  she  was  agreeably  surprised  to 
sec  him  rein  his  horse  up  to  the  sidewalk,  with  the  obvious 
intention  of  speaking  to  her.  Perhaps  her  heart  beat  a 
little  more  quickly,  as  she  stopped  to  listen. 

Apparently,  however,  he  had  nothing  of  more  impor 
tance  to  communicate  than  a  commonplace  enough  obser 
vation  about  the  heat  of  the  weather,  and  a  friendly  cau 
tion  not  to  walk  far  in  so  fervid  a  sunshine  as  was  flooding 
the  town  with  its  golden  waves.  Then,  he  gathered  up  his 
reins,  as  if  to  signify  that  his  say  was  said,  and  he  was 
ready  to  proceed.  Nevertheless,  he  lingered  a  moment 
longer,  to  add,  carelessly, — 

"  By  the  way,  I  ought  to  acknowledge  that  you  were 
right,  and  I  was  wrong,  the  other  day.  It  is  not  the  first 
time  that  man's  reason  has  had  to  admit  the  superior  cor 
rectness,  as  well  as  quickness,  of  woman's  intuition." 


262  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

Miss  Ferrars  looked  both  pleased  and  puzzled.  "It  is 
very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  she  answered,  simpering ; — 
"  but  really,  I  can't  think  what  you  allude  to." 

"  When  you  called  at  my  office,  a  few  days  ago,"  ex 
plained  the  doctor,  "  you  did  me  the  honor  to  confide  to 
me  your  impressions  with  regard  to  my  friends,  Miss  Lyte 
and  Mr.  Arling.  I  thought  you  were  mistaken,  and  told 
you  so.  It  turns  out,  however,  that  the  mistake  was  on 
my  part,  not  yours.  I  was  really  blind — not  wilfully  so, 
as  you  had  the  charity  to  suppose.  I  mention  the  mat 
ter  the  more  readily  because  it  must  soon  be  patent  to 
everybody.  Good  morning." 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Doctor  Remy  cour 
teously  lifted  his  hat,  and  went  his  way,  with  a  curious 
smile  on  his  lips. 

"  That  last  intimation  ensures  speed,"  said  he  to  him 
self.  "  Miss  Ferrars  will  do  her  best  to  be  beforehand  witli 
the  news.  Before  to-morrow  morning,  it  will  be  known 
throughout  the  town.  Then,  I  can  easily  manage  so  that 
it  shall  reach  the  Major's  ears,  and — by  the  help  of  my  lov 
ing  commentary — produce  the  desired  effect.  Astra  must 
be  gotten  out  of  the  way,  for  the  present,  at  least.  So  must 
Arling  ;  last  night's  business  convinced  me  that  he  is  more 
dangerous  than  I  imagined.  The  Major  deceives  himself, 
but  he  does  not  deceive  me  ;  his  bitterness-- -to wards  his 
nephew  is  nothing  more  than  piqued  and  smothered  affec 
tion, — affection  undergoing  fermentation,  as  it  were,  and 
certain  to  work  itself  clear  and  sweet,  in  time.  If  Arling 
remains  in  the  neighborhood,  the  Major  will  soon  be  seizing 
upon  some  pretext  for  a  reconciliation.  Failing  of  that, 
Miss  Carice  is  certain  to  inherit  his  estate  ;  just  because  he 
wooed — and  did  not  win — her  mother,  some  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  ago  !  No  doubt,  a  marriage  between  the  two 
would  suit  him  exactly,  if  he  once  got  hold  of  the  idea. 
Yes,  Arling  must  be  gotten  rid  of.  But  how  ?  " 

He  bent  his  brows   moodily.     Some  expedient,  appar- 


BUILDING   ANEW.  263 

ently,  soon  suggested  itself  to  him,  and  was  immediately 
rejected  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"  No,  not  that  way,"  he  muttered.  "  I'm  determined 
against  actual,  point-blank  crime,  so  called, — except  as  a 
last  resource.  Besides,  it  is  not  necessary  ;  I  only  want  to 
get  rid  of  him  until  the  Major  is  dead,  and  Miss  Carice  is 
iny  wife.  There  must  be  some  way  to  dispose  of  him,  by 
lawful  means,  if  I  could  only  hit  upon  it  !  Really,  if  there 
were  a  Devil,  as  some  people  believe,  he  would  strain  a 
point  now  in  my  favor  !  At  all  events,  I  think  I  see  my  way 
clear  with  Astra." 

He  was  silent,  for  an  instant ;  his  brow  grew  sombre 
with  unwonted  regret. 

"  Poor  Astra  !  "  he  murmured,  as  he  drove  into  the  cathe 
dral-like  gloom  of  the  far-stretching  pine  barren, — "  I  am 
really  loath  to  give  her  up  !  But  her  chance  of  the  Hall,  I 
see  now,  is  not  worth  a  picayune.  And  it  won't  do  to  trust 
to  the  possibility  of  substituting  a  manufactured  will  for  the 
real  one,  as  long  as  I  cannot  find  out  where  the  latter  is  de 
posited.  The  Major  was  very  close-mouthed  about  that 
matter.  No,  Miss  Carice  is  my  safest  resort.  Yet  Astra 
would  suit  me  much  better,  on  the  whole."  And  once 
again,  looking  absently  up  the  long,  columned  vista  of  the 
narrow  road,  he  murmured  regretfully ; — 

"  Poor  Astra  !  " 


IV. 

A   SEKMON. 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday.  It  came  to  the  earth,  as  it 
comes  always,  with  kindly,  hallowed  hands  full  of 
blessings,  but  found  not  everywhere  hearts  and 
minds  open  to  receive  them.  Carice  Bergan,  to  be  sure, 
knelt  in  her  accustomed  place,  in  the  little  church  of  her 
fathers,  with  a  face  which  might  almost  have  rivalled  that 
of  an  angel  in  its  bright  pcacefulness,  and  with  all  the 
windoAvs  of  her  soul  plainly  open  to  the  heavenly  sunshine. 
Bergan  Arling,  too,  conscious  that  each  one  of  these  holy 
days  had  its  own  special  gift  or  grace  for  him,  its  own  kind 
and  measure  of  spiritual  food,  which  he  could  ill  afibrd  to 
lose,  knelt  in  his  proper  place,  and  reverently  lent  his  full, 
rich  voice  to  swell  the  solemn  flow  of  common  prayer,  or 
the  harmonious  burst  of  choral  praise.  And  Mrs.  Lyte,  in 
her  widow's  weeds,  looking  upward  in  spirit,  to  the  long 
peace  of  Paradise,  and  the  shining  faces  of  the  redeemed, 
was  glad  to  believe  in  "  the  communion  of  saints,"  and 
rejoiced  in  the  day  that  was  both  a  foretaste  and  a  promise 
of  the  "  life  everlasting."  Even  Astra  Lyte,  though  suffer 
ing  from  a  vague  and  nameless  depression, — a  burden  of 
which,  as  yet,  she  felt  only  the  weight  and  chill,  without 
comprehending,  or  daring  to  try  to  comprehend,  whence  it 
came  or  what  it  meant, — was  sensible  of  a  dim  delight,  and 
possibly  a  latent  helpfulness,  in  the  sweet  and  solemn 
influences  of  the  day  and  the  place.  Here  and  there,  more 
over,  a  soul  bowed  under  the  weight  of  recent  affliction,  or 
shaken  with  the  terrors  of  a  newly-awakened  conscience, 
was  both  awed  and  glad  to  be  able  to  give  itself  audible 


A    SEKMON.  265 

expression  in  words  so  fit  find  forcible  as  those  of  the  Con 
fession  and  the  Litany,  and  thankful  if  it  might  pick  up  so 
much  as  a  crumb  of  pardon  and  peace  from  the  Master's 
bountiful  table. 

But,  to  Doctor  Remy,  paying  an  unwilling  tribute  to 
public  opinion  by  showing  himself  at  church,  on  this  morn 
ing,  after  many  weeks  of  absence,  and  leaving  it  to  be 
inferred  that,  but  for  his  professional  duties,  he  would  be 
seen  there  regularly;  to  Miss  Ferrars,  mingling  solemn 
words  of  confession  and  penitence  with  frivolous  thoughts 
of  dress  and  gossip  ;  to  Dick  Causton,  slinking  shame 
facedly  into  the  rear  pew,  to  listen  to  the  conclusion  of  the 
sweet,  old,  familiar  hymn,  the  fii'st  sounds  of  which  had 
fallen  enticingly  upon  his  ear,  as  he  was  staggering  up  the 
street ; — to  these,  and  many  others  like  them,  doubtless, 
Sunday  brought  only  present  irksomeness  and  future  con 
demnation. 

The  hymn  being  finished,  Mr.  Islay  ascended  the  pulpit, 
and,  laying  his  manuscript  open  before  him,  looked  round 
on  the  crowded  congregation,  with  serious,  almost  melan 
choly,  eyes.  Perhaps  he  sought,  amid  those  upturned 
faces,  for  gome  sign  of  human  sympathy,  to  lighten  a  little 
his  heavy  sense  of  responsibility ;  perhaps  he  wondered  to 
which  of  these  souls  his  words  were  now  to  prove  a  savor 
of  life  unto  life,  and  to  which,  a  savor  of  death  unto  death. 
Deep  and  clear,  and  full  of  a  solemn  music,  his  voice  broke 
the  silence. 

"  In  the  fifth  chapter  of  Proverbs,  and  in  the  twenty- 
second  verse,  it  is  written  : 

'  HE  SHALL  BE  HOLDER  WITH  THE  COEDS  OF  HIS  SINS.  '  ' 

Three  faces  were  at  once  alive  with  interest.  Doctor 
Remy,  indeed,  gave  a  slight  and  almost  imperceptible  start, 
as  if  his  intellect  not  only,  but  his  memory  or  his  con 
science,  had  felt  an  awakening  touch.  Bergan  Arling  merely 
fixed  his  eyes  more  intently  on  the  speaker,  with  the  aspect 
12 


206  UOLDKN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

of  a  man  who  was  glad  to  find  that  the  coming  discourse 
was  likely  to  link  into,  and  carry  on,  some  previous  train 
of  thought.  As  for  Dick  Causton,  the  word  "  Proverbs  " 
was  sufficient  to  command  his  earnest,  and  even  critical, 
attention.  He  believed  that  he  knew  a  good  deal  about 
proverbs  himself;  he  had  made  a  lifelong  study  of  their 
characteristics  and  principles  of  interpretation ;  he  had 
often  declared  those  of  Solomon — such  as  were  strictly 
proverbs — to  be  of  the  best ;  he  would  stay  and  hear  what 
a  tyro  like  Mr.  Islay  had  to  say  about  this  particular  one. 

This,  briefly,  was  what  the  clergyman  said. 

"  Many  texts  are  like  rosebuds.  They  have  a  simple 
form,  and  an  obvious  signification.  But  if  you  steep  them 
in  the  dew  of  meditation  and  the  sunshine  of  faith,  they 
begin  to  unfold  meaning  after  meaning,  as  the  rosebud 
petal  after  petal ;  and  in  the  centre  there  is  a  golden  heart, 
— the  gracious  blessing  of  God  on  the  fervent  and  prayer 
ful  spirit,  and  the  inquiring  and  teachable  mind.  Let  us 
pray  that  the  text  which  we  are  considering,  may  prove 
such  an  one  to  each  of  us. 

"  A  man's  sin  is  sure  to  find  him  out.  It  may  have 
been  committed  in  secret,  muffled  thickly  with  caution, 
and  finally  buried  deep  under  time  and  distance  and  cir 
cumstance  ;  it  may  remain  hidden  for  years ;  it  may  have 
been  forgotten,  except  for  an  occasional  dark  moment,  by 
the  sinner  himself;  yet,  some  time,  some  day,  what  seems 
to  be  a  chance,  but  is  truly  a  providence,  lifts  the  veil,  and 
takes  hold  of  the  clue, — or  death  throws  the  lurid  light  of 
his  inverted  torch  over  the  dark  transaction, — and  the  liar, 
the  thief,  the  adulterer,  the  murderer,  or  whatever  may  be 
the  miserable  man's  miserable  name,  is  brought  to  the  bar 
either  of  human  or  divine  justice.  And  there  is  no  escape. 
The  bands  of  his  iniquity  are  around  him ;  they  bind  him 
hand  and  foot ;  he  is  holden  with  the  cords  of  his  sins. 

"This  is  perhaps  the  first  and  most  obvious  meaning  of 
the  text.  It  assures  us  that,  '  though  punishment  be  lame, 


A    SERMON.  267 

it  arrives.'  It  warns  us  not  to  make  cords  which  are  cer 
tain  to  be  used,  some  day,  for  our  own  binding. 

"But  men  are  apt  to  think  lightly  of  a  remote  evil. 
The  present  monopolizes  their  fears,  as  it  does  their  labors. 
Moreover  (they  say),  there  are  dozens  of  little,  everyday 
sins,  which  entail  no  such  fearful  consequences.  Let  us  see 
how  our  text  bears  upon  these  points. 

"  Sin  is  not  a  simple,  but  a  complex,  thing.  It  is  a  cord 
twisted  of  many  threads,  and  some  of  them  begin  very  far 
back.  A  man  is  seldom  taken  in  the  toils  of  a  sudden, 
single  temptation,  or  bound  with  the  cords  of  an  utterly 
imimagined  and  unpremeditated  sin.  He  has  made  the 
way  and  work  easy  to  each  of  them,  by  yielding  to  prelim 
inary  temptations,  and  carelessly  allowing  the  binding  of 
preparatory  sins.  He  is  holden  with  the  cords  of  the  evil 
thought  to  the  unhallowed  desire  and  the  foul  gratification. 
He  is  holden  with  the  cords  of  that  seemingly  venial  sin  to 
this  final  burden  of  guilt  and  shame,  by  that  unbridled 
passion  to  this  startling,  terrible  crime.  The  slender  cord 
draws  the  stout  one  after  it :  at  sight  of  that,  the  man  may 
start  and  shrink,  but  he  is  already  half-bound,  and  his 
resistance  is  feeble.  Having  taken  the  first  step,  he  is  com 
mitted  to  the  second ;  having  admitted  the  premise,  he  is 
bound  to  the  logical  conclusion.  Here,  as  before,  he  is 
holden  with  the  cords  of  his  sins. 

"  Moreover,  there  are  few  things  stronger,  for  good  or 
ill,  than  habit.  And  every  sin,  however  small,  mat/  begin 
an  evil  habit,  and  is  sure  to  confirm  one.  Hlound  and 
round  goes  the  slender  cord,  till  it  binds  as  strongly  as  a 
chain  of  iron.  One  part  after  another  yields  to  the  subtle, 
stealing  influence;  first,  the  will  succumbs;  then,  the  rea 
son  ;  finally,  the  conscience*  Day  by  day,  good  ceases  to  at 
tract,  and  evil  to  repel.  Day  by  day,  the  right  becomes 
more  difficult,  and  the  wrong  easier.  The  habit  soon  becomes 
fixed ;  the  man  is  firmly  bound.  To  the  side  of  evil,  and 
the  service  of  Satan,  he  is  holden  with  the  cords  of  his  sins. 


268  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COKDS. 

"  Again :  If  thought  be  the  spring  of  action,  action  is 
also  the  spring  of  thought.  If  it  be  true  that,  '  as  a  man 
thinks,  he  is,'  so  it  is  true  that  as  he  is,  he  thinks. 
Thought  is  by  turns  cause  and  effect.  If  a  man's  sins  are  the 
result  of  his  evil  thoughts,  so  his  evil  and  erroneous  thoughts 
are  sometimes  the  result  of  his  sins.  He  cannot  loner  con- 

O 

tinue  to  think  ricrht  if  he  act  wroncr,.     After  breaking  the 

o  o  o 

Sabbath  awhile,  he  ceases  to  think  of  it  as  a  holy  day. 
After  committing  murder,  he  ceases  to  regard  life  as  sacred. 
Violating  human  law,  it  becomes  a  terror  instead  of  a  pro 
tection.  Defying  the  Divine  law,  he  soon  denies  its  au 
thority.  Sin  distorts  his  views,  as  well  as  his  life.  The 
truths  of  religion  lose  their  clearness  to  his  mind  with  their 
power  to  influence  his  action.  Doubts,  scepticism,  infidel 
ity,  find  an  open  door,  and  an  easy  road,  to  his  heart.  If  a 
man  would  keep  fast  hold  of  his  Christian  faith,  let  him  take 
care  to  order  his  actions,  as  far  as  possible,  in  conformity 
to  its  precepts.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  let  him  give  free 
rein  to  his  appetites  and  ambitions, — yea,  even  to  the  com 
mission  of  absolute  crime, — if  he  wishes  to  become  a  mocker 
and  an  infidel,  without  love  of  God  or  man,  without  correct 
views  of  time  or  clear  ones  of  eternity.  For,  to  all  these 
things,  he  will  be  sure  to  be  holden  with  the  cords  of  his 
sins. 

"  Finally  ;  All  men  love  liberty.  But  sin,  though  it 
may  seem,  at  first,  to  be  the  wildest  liberty,  soon  proves  to 
be  the  narrowest  bondage.  The  sinner  is  the  slave  of  ap 
petites,  of  habits,  of  thoughts,  that  arc  hard  task-masters  ; 
and  the  wages  of  which  are  every  kind  of  death.  For  there 
are  many  kinds, — social,  political,  moral,  before  the  final, 
everlasting  death  ; — and  one,  or  all,  of  these,  he  is  sure  to 
taste,  as  the  reward  of  his  faithful  service  of  Satan.  His 
health  is  undermined,  or  his  reputation  destroyed  ;  his  for 
tune  is  dissipated,  or  his  gold  corroded  in  the  using  ;  he  is 
shaken  with  the  terrors  of  conscience,  or  hardened  into  the 
semblance  of  stone  ;  he  is  without  adequate  consolation  in 


A   SERMON.  269 

the  clay  of  trouble,  and  without  strengthening  hope  in  the 
day  of  death  ;  but  his  slavery  is  abject  and  absolute.  He 
neither  will  nor  can  escape.  He  is  holden  with  the  cords 
of  his  sins. 

"  Thus  you  will  see,  beloved,  that  our  text  has  a  word 
of  solemn  warning  for  the  present,  as  well  as  for  the  future. 
The  holding  of  sin  is  to  be  dreaded  in  life,  not  less  than  at 
death.  One  sin  holds  fast  to  another.  Single  sins  twist 
together  into  the  strong  cord  of  habitual  sin.  The  sinful 
act  draAvs  after  it  evil  thoughts  and  loose  opinions.  Sin  is  a 
continual,  daily  bondage,  as  well  as  a  final  retribution. 

"  BcAvare  then,  oh,  ye  young  !  hoAV  you  bind  yourselves 
with  cords  of  sinful  thoughts,  or  habits,  or  opinions,  or  pas 
sions,  to  the  exclusion  of  that  blessed  liberty  \vhich  is  in 
Christ  Jesus.  Beware,  oh,  ye  adults  !  how  you  go  on  add 
ing  sin  to  sin,  and  cord  to  cord,  till  you  are  bound  hand 
and  foot,  thought  and  will,  body  and  soul ;  and  are  finally 
cast  doAvn  to  perdition,  in  bonds  of  your  oAvn  industrious 
forging — holden  Avith  the  cords  of  your  sins  ! 

"  But, — do  you  say  ? — we  are  all  sinners,  Ave  are  all 
*  holden,'  IIOAV  are  we  to  break  from  the  cords  of  our  sins  ? 
Go  to  Christ.  At  His  feet,  all  bonds  are  broken,  all  slavery 
ends.  He  leads  captivity  captive,  and  His  service  is  per 
fect  freedom.  He  is  our  righteousness,  and  the  man  that 
trustcth  in  Him,  shall  no  more  be  holden  with  the  cords  of 
His  sins." 

Such  was  the  substance  of  the  sermon.  But  in  the  de 
livery,  there  was  a  Avarmth  and  an  earnestness,  a  happiness  of 
expression  and  illustration,  and  a  deep  solemnity,  that  held 
the  congregation  spell-bound  Avith  interest,  to  the  end  ! 

Perhaps  no  one  had  listened  more  attentively,  or  hum<- 
bly,  than  Bergan  Arling.  So  recently  had  he  felt  the  irk 
some  holding  of  the  cords  of  his  sins  !  And  he  would  still, 
no  doubt,  be  holden  to  their  consequences,  all  the  days  of 
his  life,  if  not  to  their  guilt. 

As  for  Doctor  Ilcmy,  there  Avas  an  unusual  pallor  in 


270  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

his  face,  when  he  rose,  at  the  singing  of  the  last  hymn. 
But  it  was  quickly  gone  ;  he  came  out  of  the  church  with 
much  of  his  usual  cold,  composed  demeanor.  His  sins  had 
held  him  too  long  to  loosen  their  stricture  at  one  transient 
quake  of  conscience. 

Dick  Causton  had  listened  for  some  time  with  marked 
attention,  and  apparent  approval.  Then,  a  kind  of  haze 
had  slowly  bedimmed  his  sight  and  beclouded  his  brain. 
When  the  congregation  came  down  the  aisles,  he  was  fast 
asleep,  with  his  head  drooping  heavily  on  his  breast.  If 
anything  could  have  added  to  the  effect  of  the  sermon,  this 
sight  ought  to  have  done  so.  Most  certainly,  poor  Dick 
was  "  holden  with  the  cords  of  his  sins." 

When  the  church  was  empty,  he  was  shaken  rudely  by 
the  sexton,  and  turned  out,  muttering  caustic  proverbs  by 
way  of  retaliation. 


V. 

PARTINGS. 

BERGAN  and  Doctor  Remy  walked  home  from  the 
church,  as  they  had  gone  thither,  side  by  side ;  yet, 
for  a  considerable  time,  neither  spoke.  If  not  alto 
gether  congenial  spirits,  they  were  on  sufficiently  easy  and 
familiar  terms,  in  virtue  of  their  almost  daily  association, 
to  allow  each  to.  pursue  his  own  train  of  thought,  on  occa 
sion,  without  reference  to  the  other. 

To  Bergan,  Mr.  Islay's  sermon  had  been  interesting  and 
effective,  not  only  for  what  it  contained,  but  for  what  it 
suggested.  Xaturally,  therefore,  his  mind  was  now  busy 
in  following  out  those  suggestions  to  the  point  where  they 
bore  upon  his  own  experience,  and  unfolded  their  lessons 
for  his  own  soul. 

But  Dr.  Remy's  thoughts  had  long  since  strayed  away 
from  any  channel  into  which  the  sermon  was  calculated  to 
lead  them.  There  had  been  some  brief  moments,  during  its 
delivery,  to  be  sure,  when  he  had  shrunken  inwardly,  iron- 
nerved  though  he  were,  from  the  deep,  sharp  probing  of 
certain  of  its  sentences ;  and  there  had  been  a  single  in 
stant,  perhaps,  wherein  he  had  been  made  dimly  to  see,  or 
to  suspect,  that  his  own  life  and  character — much  as  he  had 
prided  himself  upon  being  the  independent  artificer  of  them 
both — were  really  the  results  to  which  he  had  been  holden 
by  the  cords  of  former,  half-forgotten  sins.  But  he  had 
made  haste  to  shake  himself  free  from  both  the  idea  and 
its  effect,  with  one  smile  of  scorn  at  his  own  folly,  and  an 
other  at  what  he  chose  to  consider  the  weak  superstition  of 
the  clergyman  and  his  awed,  interested  flock.  He  thanked 


272  HOLDEN   WITH    THE    COEDS. 

God — using  the  phrase  in  a  vague,  general  sense  which, 
perhaps,  was  only  equivalent  to  thanking  himself — that  he 
was  not  as  these  men  were.  And  no  sooner  was  he  in  the 
open  air  than  he  set  his  busy  mind  to,  the  consideration  of 
his  own  projects.  Some  clue  to  its  workings  may  perhaps 
be  afforded  by  the  question  with  which  he  finally  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Have  you  ever  had  the  yellow  fever,  Arling  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  docs  not  visit  our  western  villages." 

"  Then,  I  advise  you  to  take  refuge  in  one  of  them,  for 
the  next  three  months.  It  is  certain  to  visit  Berganton 
ere  long." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Bergan,  with  more  curiosity  than  alarm. 
"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  From  the  weather,  the  atmosphere,  the  present  type  of 
disease, — a  dozen  indications  patent  to  the  eye  of  experi 
ence.  Besides,  I  am  informed  by  a  private  letter  that  it  has 
already  appeared  in  New  Orleans.  Its  arrival  here  is  but  a 
question  of  time.  And  I  assure  you  that  its  acquaintance 
is  to  be  avoided." 

"  Doubtless.  And  1  shall  do  my  best  to  avoid  it — ex 
cept  by  running  away." 

"  You  might  as  well  say,"  answered  Doctor  Remy,  dryly, 
"  that  you  will  take  every  precaution  against  drowning — 
except  to  keep  your  head  above  water.  Don't  be  fool 
hardy,  Arling.  Yellow  Jack  has  a  keen  appetite  for  stran 
gers, — that  is  to  say,  for  all  who  are  not  native  born.  If  he 
spares  any,  it  is  usually  the  sickly  and  feeble,  not  the  strong 
and  vigorous.  lie  would  consider  you  a  toothsome  morsel. 
Take  ray  advice,  and  go  home,  or  go  North,  or  take  a  sea- 
voyage, — do  anything  rather  than  remain  here  during  the 
last  of  summer  and  the  beginning  of  autumn.  It  will  be 

O  O 

no  loss  to  you.  After  the  first  of  next  month,  there  will  be 
absolutely  nothing  for  a  lawyer  to  do  here  but  try  to  keep 
cool." 

"  And  you?"  asked  Bergan. 


PAKTINGS.  273 

"  Oh,  I  stay,  of  course.  An  epidemic  is  a  physician's 
harvest  time.  Besides,  I  have  had  the  yellow  fever." 

"Then  the  native-born  do  not  all  escape?" 

"  By  no  means.  Besides,  I  lost  my  birthright  by  many 
years'  absence  in  Europe.  It  was  immediately  after  my  re 
turn  that  I  was  taken.  Now  I  may  consider  myself  accli 
mated." 

"  As  I  must  be,"  replied  Bergan,  "  if,  as  is  likely,  I  am 
to  spend  the  remainder  of  my  life  at  the  South.  Thank 
you  for  your  friendly  warning,  but  I  think  I  must  stay." 

Doctor  Remy  shrugged  his  shouldei-s,  and  said  no 
more.  He  had  merely  tried  the  first  and  simplest  expedient 
which  occurred  to  him,  for  removing  Bergan  from  the 
neighborhood.  He  was  not  surprised  nor  troubled  that  it 
had  failed.  He  had  expected  as  much.  But  there  were  other 
and  surer  means  to  his  end,  he  believed,  at  his  command. 

However,  he  was  not  obliged  to  resort  to  them.  Early 
next  morning  Bergan  came  into  his  office,  with  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  a  most  anxious  face. 

"  Read  that,"  said  he,  huskily,  "  and  tell  me  if  there  is 
any  hope." 

Doctor  Remy  obeyed,  reading  the  letter  not  once  only, 
but  twice,  and  looking  long  and  meditatively  at  the  signa 
ture.  Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Bergan's  face. 

"  Plenty  of  hope,  in  my  opinion,"  said  he.  "  I  do  not 
attach  as  much  importance  as  this  Doctor  Trubie  does  to 
your  mother's  fancy  that  she  is  going  to  die.  It  only 
argues  a  depressed  state  of  mind,  corresponding  to  a  low 
state  of  body.  Nevertheless,  it  is  well  to  do  whatever  can 
be  done  to  raise  her  spirits ;  and  I  sxispect  that  your  pres 
ence  at  her  bedside  will  avail  much  to  that  end.  Of  course, 
you  set  out  at  once  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  Can  you  tell  me  at  what  hour  the  next 
train  leaves  Savalla  ?  " 

Doctor  Remy  glanced  at  his  watch.  "  In  an  hour  and 
a  half.  That  gives  you  ample  time ; — fifteen  minutes  to 
12* 


274  II OLDEN   WTTH   THE   CORDS. 

throw  a  few  things  into  a  portmanteau,  and  tell  me  what  I 
can  do  for  you  while  you  are  away  ;  five  minutes  for  adieux, 
and  an  hour  and  ten  minutes  to  reach  Savalla,  in  the 
saddle,  with  a  swift  horse." 

"  If  I  can  find  one  at  such  short  notice,"  said  Bergan, 
doubtfully. 

Doctor  Remy  pulled  a  bell-wire,  and  Scipio's  black  head 
appeared  as  instantaneously  as  if  he  had  been  attached  to 
the  other  end  of  it. 

"  Saddle  the  roan,  and  take  him  round  to  the  front 
gate,"  said  Doctor  Remy.  "  Mr.  Arling  Avill  ride  him  to 
Savalla.  You  will  go  after  him,  by  the  stage,  this  after 
noon.  Quick  now  !  " 

The  head  ducked,  and  disappeared. 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  !  "  exclaimed  Bergan,  wringing 
the  doctor's  hand. 

"  By  attending  to  the  portmanteau  business  at  once.  I 
will  come  with  you  ;  we  can  talk  while  you  work.  I  want 
to  ask  something  about  this  Doctor  Trubie.  Does  he  keep 
up  with  the  times, — in  medicine,  that  is  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know — I  believe  so." 

"  H'm  ;  there  have  been  some  recent  discoveries  of  great 
value  in  the  treatment  of  typhoids,  when  they  run  long  and 
low,  as  they  are  apt  to  do.  Suppose  I  write  down  a  few 
suggestions,  which,  if  there  is  grave  need,  you  can  com 
mend  to  Doctor  Trubic's  favorable  consideration.  Other 
wise,  don't  interfere." 

Bergan  tried  once  more  to  express  his  gratitude,  as  the 
folded  paper  was  put  in  his  hand ;  but  Doctor  Remy  cut 
him  short. 

"  If  you  really  want  to  thank  me,"  said  he,  "  do  it  by 
staying  away  until  the  sickly  season  is  over ;  I  shall  have 
yellow  fever  patients  enough  without  you.  Indeed,  you 
must;  having  left,  it  would  be  suicidal  to  come  back 
before  the  first  of  November.  Tell  your  mother  that  I  said 
so,  when  she  is  convalescent." 


PARTINGS.  275 

"  When  she  is  convalescent,"  repeated  Bergan,  quickly. 
"  Then  you  do  hope  !  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  There  is  every  reason  for  it.  Your 
mother,  being  a  Bergan,  has  a  sound  constitution,  and  an 
almost  indomitable  vitality;  and  she  is  not  yet  old.  If 
Trubie  makes  a  good  fight,  he  is  sure  to  win.  At  any 
rate,  never  despair  till  the  breath  is  out  of  the  body ;  nor 
even  then,  till  you  are  certain  that  it  cannot  be  brought 
back." 

Bergan  could  not  but  feel  a  pang  of  self-reproach  for 
his  long-smothered  dislike  and  distrust  of  the  man  who 
was  thus  loading  him  with  obligations, — help  on  his  way 
to  his  mother,  ready  encouragement,  and  valuable  profes 
sional  advice.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  doing  good  that  evil  may  come ! 

Doctor  Remy  looked  after  him  with  a  triumphant  smile. 
"  One  out  of  my  way  already !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  would 
seem  that  the  Devil  (another  name  for  Fate  or  Chance)  has 
helped  me ! " 

Bergan  next  sought  Mrs.  Lyte  and  Astra,  for  a  parting 
word.  He  found  the  latter  in  her  studio,  sitting  idly  by  a 
window,  with  her  hands  folded  listlessly  in  her  lap,  and  a 
weary,  dejected  face  that  went  to  his  heart.  Never  before 
had  he  seen  her  otherwise  than  busy,  bright,  and  earnest ; 
never  had  she  met  his  look  with  so  faint  and  transient  a 
smile. 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  are  going,"  said  she,  sombrely; 
"  sorrier,  perhaps,  than  the  occasion  may  seem  to  warrant. 
But  I  cannot  rid  myself  of  a  suspicion  that  this  phase  of 
our  life  and  friendship  is  finished  ;  and.  who  can  tell  what 
the  next  may  be !  Do  you  remember  our  first  meeting 
under  the  oaks,  and  the  red  sunset  Jight,  and  the  dark 
sunset  cloud  ?  You  interpreted  them  to  mean  that  we 
were  to  know  sunshine  and  shade  together,  did  you  not  ? 
Well,  we  have  had  the  sunshine ;  now,  it  is  time  for  the 
shade.". 


270  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE    CORDS. 

"  You  forget,"  said  Bergan,  kindly,  "  that  the  cloud 
was  but  for  a  moment,  and  the  sunshine  returned." 

"  No,  I  remember  it  well.  But  the  cloud  was  very  dark 
while  it  lasted,  and  the  shine  was  not  quite  so  bright  after 
ward.  It  was  nearer  to  its  setting." 

Bergan  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  Astra  who 
spoke.  Hitherto,  she  had  been  the  moral  sunshine  of  the 
house,  felt  even  where  it  did  not  directly  fall.  Her  spirit, 
in  its  potency  of  cheer,  resembled  the  sunbeam  which, 
though  it  kindle  but  one  little  spot  on  the  floor  into  actual 
brightness,  diffuses  its  light  and  cheerfulness  throughout 
a  whole  room.  As  every  article  of  furniture,  every  picture, 
every  face,  in  the  room,  is  the  brighter  for  the  sunbeam,  so 
every  inmate  of  Mrs.  Lytc's  rambling  old  dwelling  had 
been  the  happier  for  Astra's  presence  and  influence.  The 
sound  of  her  clear,  buoyant  voice,  the  thought  of  her  light, 
busy  figure,  just  across  the  hall,  had  always  served  to 
quicken  and  brighten  his  own  energies.  It  had  been  very 
much  his  wont  to  bring  all  his  shadows,  discouragements, 
and  despondencies,  to  be  dissipated  by  contact  with  her 
breezy  activity  and  cheery  hopefulness.  What  had  come 
over  her,  that  she  met  him  now  with  such  dreary  premoni 
tion  of  ill,  such  persistent  dwelling  upon  the  dai'k  side  ? 
He  looked  down  upon  her  with  the  question  in  his  eyes,  if 
not  on  his  lips. 

She  understood  and  answered  it. 

"  It  is  only  a  dark  mood,"  said  she,  passing  her  hand 
over  her  brow,  "  not  an  actual  trouble, — at  least,  not  yet. 
But  forgive  me  for  afflicting  you  with  it  now,  when  you  are 
under  the  shadow  of  a  real  cloud.  Let  us  hope  that  it  will 
pass  quickly.  When  you  reach  home,  may  the  sunshine  be 
already  there ! " 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  expect  to  hear  from  you  through 
Doctor  Remy — all  of  you,  I  mean.  He  has  promised  to  let 
me  know  how  everything  goes  on  here." 

Astra  lifted  her  eyes  searchingly  to  his  face.     Her  fine 


PARTINGS.  277 

perceptions  had  not  failed  to  take  note  of  his  inadvertent 
linking  together  of  Doctor  Remy  and  herself,  and  his  quick 
attempt  to  conceal  it.  She  divined  that  he  knew  her 
secret.  Her  eyes  fell,  and  her  face  flushed. 

Bergan  took  her  hand,  and  lifted  it,  in  gentle,  chivalrous 
fashion,  to  his  lips.  "  I  wish  you  every  happiness,"  said 
he,  in  a  tone  that  said  more  than  the  words, — "  every  sun 
shine,  and  few  clouds.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered,  withdrawing  her  hand,  yet 
not  without  a  certain  lingering  pressure,  that  seemed  even 
sadder  than  her  face,  and  that  Bergan  felt  long  afterwards. 
And  he  left  her  sitting  where  he  found  her. 

Mrs.  Lyte  and  Cathie  followed  him  to  the  door,  the 
one  with  much  quiet  sympathy  and  regret,  the  other  with 
passionate  tears  and  lamentations. 

"  He  will  not  come  back !  He  will  not  come  back  !  " 
she  screamed,  wringing  her  hands,  as  he  rode  away  ;  and 
the  mournful  cry  followed  him  down  the  street,  like  a 
prophecy  of  woe. 

A  little  farther  on,  he  discovered  that  Nix  was  trotting 
quietly  alongside  of  his  horse.  And  so  intimately  had  the 
dog  been  connected  with  all  his  sojourn  under  Mrs.  Lyte's 
roof,  that,  in  sending  him  back,  he  seemed  to  close  the 
final  page  of  this  whole  epoch  of  his  life. 

His  road  skirted  a  retired  portion  of  the  grounds  of 
Oakstead.  Suddenly,  he  espied  Carice,  standing  on  the 
bank  of  the  creek,  with  her  eyes  thoughtfully  fixed  upon 
its  rippling  flow.  His  sad  heart  yearned  towards  her  with 
irresistible  force.  Glancing  at  his  watch,  he  saw  that  there 
was  yet  time  for  a  brief,  pai-ting  word.  He  flung  himself 
from  his  horse,  threw  the  bridle  over  a  gatepost,  and  ran 
quickly  towards  her. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  here!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
drew  aear.  "  Otherwise,  I  must  have  gone  without  saying 
good-bye.  I  am  sent  for,  in  great  haste;  my  mother  is 
very  ill,  and  — " 


278  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

He  stopped ;  his  grave  face  said  the  rest. 

'/'  I  am  very,  very  sorry  !  "  putting  her  hand  in  his,  with 
quick,  earnest  sympathy.  "  When  did  you  hear  ?  " 

"  This  morning.  She  insisted  that  I  should  be  sent  for, 
as  soon  as  she  was  taken  ill ;  she  believed  that  she  could 
not  recover.  It  is  the  typhoid  fever." 

Carice's  face  blanched  suddenly.  "  Ah !  that  has  a 
fearful  sound,"  she  said,  shiveringly.  "  My  two  brothers  " — 

Her  voice  failed,  and  her  slight  frame  shook  with  sud 
den  emotion.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Bergan  had  heard 
her  allude  to  the  only  sorrow  which  she  had  yet  known ; 
but  the  effect  of  which  had  been  all  the  more  keenly  felt, 
doubtless,  because,  for  her  parents'  sake,  she  had  shut  it 
resolutely  into  the  depths  of  her  heart,  never  allowing  its 
shadow  to  be  seen  for  a  moment  on  the  face  wherein  they 
now  looked  for  consolation  and  cheer. 

Much  moved,  Bergan  put  his  arm  round  the  slender, 
tremulous  form.  At  first,  it  was  only  the  blind,  manly 
instinct  of  help  and  support  that  prompted  him  ;  but  with 
the  act  there  came  a  swift  revelation,  a  great  rush  of  tender 
ness,  that  almost  took  his  breath  away.  Though  he  had 
never  suspected  it  till  now,  he  knew,  in  an  instant,  Ix-vond 
the  possibility  of  a  doubt,  not  only  that  he  loved  Lurice, 
but  that  he  had  loved  her  long. 

Carice,  on  her  part,  was  quick  to  feel  the  sudden,  sub 
tile  change  in  the  character  of  the  support  given  her,  and 
made  a  fluttering  movement  of  escape.  But  Bergan  would 
not  let  her  go. 

"Carice,"  said  he,  gravely,  "if  I  should  return  sorrow 
ing,  will  you  console  me  ?  " 

"  If  1  can,"  she  answered,  simply,  raising  her  blue  eyes 
to  his  face. 

"  If  you  can  !  "  he  repeated,  with  a  deep  tender  intona 
tion, — "  oh,  Carice  !  it  must  be  a  heavy  sorrow  indeed  that 
you  cannot  console !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  day,  which  had  hitherto  been  cloudy, 


PARTINGS.  279 

suddenly  broke  into  a  smile,  pouring  a  flood  of  golden 
light  on  the  river,  trickling  through  the  boughs  of  the 
overhanging  trees  in  great,  shining  drops,  and  flinging  a 
yellow  gleam  far  down  their  gray  trunks.  Wondrous  sym 
pathy  of  Nature  with  the  bliss  of  two  spirits  made  one, — 
the  tender  joy  that  keeps,  throughout  the  musty  years,  the 
freshness  and  fragrance  of  its  Eden  birth !  Yet,  had  the 
day  still  held  its  gloom,  it  would  have  been  bright  in  Ca- 
rice's  eyes,  and  bright  in  Bergan's!  Wherever  Love  is 
newly  born,  it  creates  a  sunshine  of  the  heart,  which  over 
flows  upon  the  outward  world,  and  fills  it  with  celestial 
radiance. 

Five  minutes  later,  and  Carice  was  alone  by  the  river's 
bank,  blushing  to  hear  how  persistently  the  little  stream 
kept  whispering  and  singing  of  what  it  had  just  seen  and 
heard.  The  leaves,  too,  ceemed  to  be  softly  talking  it  over 
among  themselves ;  and  a  red  bird  and  a  gray  one  were 
gossiping  merrily  about  it  among  the  branches. 

Still  more  plainly,  Carice's  face  told  the  story,  when  she 
sought  her  parents.  They  saw  at  once  that  it  was  not  the 
same  face  which  had  gone  out  from  them  an  hour  before. 
It  had  changed  as  an  opening  rosebud  must  have  changed 
in  the  same  time,  under  the  balmy  breathing  of  the  warm 
south  wind.  Its  merely  girlish  loveliness  was  over ;  play 
ing  about  the  mouth,  and  shining  from  the  eyes,  there  was 
a  bright  and  tender  smile  that  seemed  gushing  from  the 
very  heart  of  awakening  womanhood.  Never  had  she 
seemed  so  lovely,  never  so  radiant.  Looking  upon  her,  it 
was  easy  to  divine  the  secret  of  angelic  beauty.  The 
heavenly  existences  are  immortally  beautiful  because  im 
mortally  happy. 

"  Did  you  engage  yourself  to  him  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bergan, 
almost  sternly,  when  her  brief  tale  was  told. 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  Carice,  opening  wide  her 
blue  eyes  at  the  unusual  tone, — "  not  until  you  and  mamma 
are  consulted.  Only,  we  know  that  we  love  each  other." 


280  HOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

At  the  same  time,  Dr.  Remy  stood  smiling  to  himself, 
in  his  office, — a  dark,  ominous  smile. 

"  I  am  sure  of  three  months,"  said  he.  "  And,  in  three 
months,  tact  and  perseverance  can  accomplish  a  great 
deal." 

At  the  same  time,  too,  Astra  rose  suddenly  from  the 
chair,  where  Bergan  had  left  her  sitting,  and  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  room. 

"I  have  been  idle  too  long,"  she  said  to  herself;  "I 
have  let  myself  dream  till  my  world  is  peopled  with  shad 
ows,  and  I  cannot  distinguish  the  false  from  the  true. 
Work  is  what  I  want.  Work  will  exorcise  these  phantoms, 
and  make  my  brain  clear  and  strong  again." 

She  stopped  and  looked  fixedly  into  vacancy,  striving  to 
recall  a  former  conception  that  had  been  dazzled  out  of 
sight  in  the  golden  dawn  of  her  love.  In  a  moment,  it  rose 
again  before  her;  a  great,  stalwart,  straining  figure, — a 
man  struggling  up  out  of  the  waves  that  had  wellnigh 
worsted  him,  with  a  little  child  on  his  shoulders. 

Quickly  she  improvised  a  kind  of  platform,  and  brought 
out  her  fertile  box  of  clay.  Nervously,  she  fastened  her 
supports  together ;  rapidly  around  them  rose  the  soft,  gray, 
plastic  material  in  the  rude,  rough  resemblance  of  a  human 
form. 


VI. 

WITH    A    DOUBLE    HEART. 

HVTOW  and  then,  on  a  summer's  day,  the  air  is  suddenly 

1  \|       filled  with  minute,  swarming  insects  of  the  genus 

ephemera.     They  come  unnoticed  and  unheralded ; 

the  air  is  thick  with  them  ere  one  is  aware ;  ears,  mouths, 

and  nostrils  are  filled  with  them,  despite  all  efforts  to  the 

contrary  ;  they  are  variously  regarded  from  the  scientific, 

the   poetic,  and   the   moral   point  of  view,  or  merely  as 

nuisances ;  by  and  by,  they  are  gone  as  they  came. 

In  just  such  wise,  a  swarm  of  rumors  prejudicial  to  the 
reputation  of  Bergan  Arling  suddenly  filled  the  air  of  Ber- 
ganton  ;  coming  no  one  knew  whence,  but  quickly  circulat 
ing  everywhere,  to  be  variously  met  with  surprise,  doubt, 
belief,  regret,  anger,  and  indifference.  It  was  averred  that 
he  had  gone  home  deeply  in  debt,  at  least  to  his  good 
friend  Doctor  Remy,  who  certainly  deserved  better  treat 
ment  at  his  hands.  It  was  alleged  that  he  was  hopelessly 
the  victim  of  a  depraved  appetite  for  strong  drink,  although, 
by  the  help  of  the  same  good  friend,  he  had  managed,  thus 
far,  to  save  himself  from  public  exposure.  It  was  affirmed 
that  he  had  persuaded  Astra  Lyte  into  a  secret  engagement, 
perhaps  for  the  sake  of  mere  pastime,  perhaps  with  a  view 
to  the  ultimate  possession  of  the  roof  which  had  so  long 
sheltered  him,  or  to  the  union  of  his  own  with  Astra's 
chances  for  the  future  ownership  of  Bergan  Hall.  Finally, 
it  was  shrewdly  suspected  that,  having  grown  weary  alike 
of  the  debts,  the  engagement,  and  the  measure  of  constraint 
which  he  had  hitherto  exercised  over  himself,  he  had  sud 
denly  broken  away  from  all  three,  with  the  trumped-up 


282  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

excuse  of  his  mother's  illness,  and  taken  himself  off,  not  to 
return. 

Coming,  as  has  been  said,  no  one  knew  from  whence, 
and  having  no  apparent  voucher,  these  rumors  neverthe 
less  penetrated  to  counting-rooms  and  boudoirs,  to  offices 
and  to  bar-rooms,  to  Major  Bergan  on  his  vast  estate,  and 
Dick  Causton  in  his  narrow  cabin,  to  Godfrey  Bergan  at 
his  desk,  and  Carice  beside  her  mother,— everywhere,  save  to 
the  two  persons  most  directly  interested  ;  namely,  Bergan 
Arling  on  his  rapid  way  homeward,  and  Astra  Lyte  in  her 
studio. 

Astra  was  hard  at  work  now.  Every  hour,  her  clay 
model  grew  in  strength  or  symmetry  under  her  rapid 
touches.  Yet  her  hope  of  finding  clearness  and  quietness 
of  mind  in  the  exercise  of  her  beloved  art,  had  been  wo- 
fully  disaj  (pointed.  The  phantoms  of  doubt  and  anxiety 
which  had  haunted  her  idleness  were  not  laid  by  her  indus 
try,  but  only  held  in  abeyance  until  the  inevitable  moment 
of  exhaustion,  or  of  suspended  inspiration,  brought  them 
upon  her  again,  with  tenfold  power  to  annoy.  Do  what 
she  would,  she  could  not  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  a 
change  had  come  over  Doctor  Remy,  nor  prevent  herself 
from  speculating  as  to  its  nature  and  cause.  At  first,  it 
was  only  that  miserable  and  dream-like  change  of  look  and 
manner  which  forbids  one  to  complain,  because  it  gives  no 
lucid  explanation  of  itself  to  the  intellect,  however  it  may 
disturb  and  depress  the  heart.  Its  effect  was  magical, 
nevertheless,  in  clearing  Astra's  vision  from  that  soft,  trans 
figuring  haze  of  the  imagination  through  which  love  de 
lights  to  gaze  at  its  object,  and  in  giving  her  occasional 
glimpses  into  the  depths  and  intricacies  of  Doctor  Ilemy's 
character.  Unconsciously,  whenever  he  came  near  her,  she 
fell  to  watching  his  words,  his  tones,  his  looks,  even  his  mo 
tions  and  attitudes,  for  indications  of  the  hidden,  inner 
man,  upon  whose  qualities  and  tendencies  her  happiness  so 
largely  depended.  The  object  of  this  scrutiny  was  too 


WITH   A   DOUBLE   HEART.  283 

keen-witted  not  to  be  aware  of  it,  and  too  subtile  not  to 
avail  himself  of  it  to  further  his  own  ends.  With  apparent 
carelessness,  but  consummate  art,  he  allowed  more  and 
more  of  his  true  character  to  come  to  the  surface  ;  he  showed 
himself  scornful  toward  religion,  faithless  toward  mankind, 
indifferent  and  unsympathizing  toward  herself,  in  the  hope 
of  quickly  transforming  her  affection  into  disgust,  and  forc 
ing  her  to  put  a  speedy  end  to  their  engagement.  Doing 
this  whenever  he  met  her,  he  none  the  less  took  good  care 
to  make  it  manifest  that  he  avoided  her  as  far  as  possible. 

Under  these  circumstances,  no  wonder  that  Astra  grew 
pale  and  thin,  that  alternately  she  worked  as  in  a  fever,  or 
stood  idle  as  in  a  dream,  that  her  old,  cheery  alacrity  gave 
place  to  sombre  restlessness,  and  her  glow  of  happy  spirits 
to  pale  depression,  that,  in  short,  she  speedily  became  so 
unlike  herself  as  greatly  to  alarm  Mrs.  Lytc,  who  finally 
appealed  to  Doctor  Remy.  He  was  only  too  glad  to  pre 
scribe  immediate  change  of  air  and  scene. 

Mrs.  Lytc  stood  aghast. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  manage  it,"  said  she,  slowly. 
"  My  income  is  just  sufficient  for  our  present  mode  of  life  ; 
there  is  no  surplus  to  meet  the  added  expense  of  a  health 
trip." 

Doctor  Remy  mused  for  a  moment.  "  We  will  talk 
over  this  matter  again,"  said  he,  at  length,  looking  at  his 
watch  ;  just  now  I  have  an  engagement.  But  trust  my  as 
surance  that  wherever  there  is  a  plain  necessity  for  a  thing, 
there  is  a  way  to  obtain  it.  Good  moi*ning." 

Doctor  Remy's  engagement  did  not  prevent  him  from 
repairing  straightway  to  Bergan  Hall,  whither  the  rumors  al 
ready  alluded  to  had  preceded  him.  And  so  artfully  did  he 
work  upon  Major  Bcrgan's  hasty  and  arbitrary  temper  as 
to  induce  him  forthwith  to  warn  Mrs.  Lytc  of  the  existence  of 
the  forfeited  mortgage,  and  his  intention  to  foreclose  at  an 
early  day.  Be  it  said,  however,  in  the  Major's  behalf,  that 
he  graciously  designed  said  warning  to  play  somewhat  of 


284  HOLDEN    WITH   THE    CORDS. 

the  part  of  a  blessing  in  disguise.  For,  having  first  shown 
Mrs.  Lytc  how  completely  she  was  in  his  power,  it  was  his 
generous  intention  to  offer  her  the  largest  mercy  thereafter, 
even  to  the  immediate  relinquishment  of  every  claim  against 
her  estate,  on  the  easy  condition  that  she,  and  her  daughter 
should  at  once  break  off  all  relations  and  engagements  with 
his  nephew,  Bcrgan  Arling.  Thus,  he  would  save  Astra 
from  what  he  was  easily  persuaded  would  turn  out  to  be  a 
most  unhappy  marriage  ;  at  the  same  time  that  he  would 
gratify  a  certain  odd  itchincc  in  his  finders  to  meddle  in 

»_:>•/  O  O 

Bergan's  affairs.  The  whole  business  was  arranged  in  less 
than  an  hour,  and  Doctor  Remy  returned  homeward  tri 
umphant. 

Nor  was  his  elation  at  all  shadowed  by  any  thought  of 
the  suffering  about  to  be  inflicted  at  his  instigation.  Men 
of  his  naturally  hard  and  forceful  character,  intensified  by 
long  culture  of  the  intellect  at  the  expense  of  the  sensibili 
ties,  are  apt  to  take  a  terribly  straight  path  in  one  sense,  if  a 
wofully  crooked  one  in  another,  to  whatever  end  they  have 
in  view.  The  feelings  of  others,  where  they  cannot  be 
made  to  subserve  their  purposes,  are  regarded  as  so  many 
obstructions  in  their  way ;  to  be  pushed  aside,  or  trampled 
undei'-foot,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Possibly,  too,  they  do  not  credit  others  with  a  greater 
depth  of  feeling  than  they  are  conscious  of  in  themselves. 
Certainly,  Doctor  Remy,  knowing  nothing,  by  experience, 
of  the  tender  and  sacred  associations  that  cluster  around 
the  home  of  years,  was  not  likely  to  concern  himself  about 
the  probable  grief  of  Mrs.  Lyte,  at  leaving  hers,  except  as 
it  might  hinder  or  prevent  her  departure.  For,  go  she 
must, — at  least,  for  a  time, — since  Astra  would  not  be  likely 
to  go  without  her.  His  present  task  was  so  to  smooth  and 
clear  the  way  for  them,  on  the  one  hand,  Avhile  he  furnished 
the  necessary  degree  of  motive  power,  on  the  other,  that 
they  should  be  gone  ere  Major  Bei'gan  was  aware,  or  had 
submitted  his  terms  of  compromise  to  their  consideration. 


WITH    A   DOUBLE    HEART.  285 

In  furtherance  of  this  design,  he  had  tapped  lightly  at 
the  door  of  Astra's  studio,  ere  the  sound  of  voices  from 
within  told  him  that  she  was  not  alone.  Carice  Bergan 
was  with  her,  and  both  were  discussing  Astra's  statue  of 
clay ;  unto  the  creation  of  which  she  had  lately  turned — 
with  such  scanty  measure  of  success — for  distraction,  if  not 
for  comfort.  With  a  slight  bow  and  a  word  of  greeting  to 
Doctor  Remy,  Carice  went  on  with  what  she  was  saying, 
in  her  own  singularly  gentle,  yet  frank  and  fearless,  fash 
ion. 

"As  I  said  just  now,  it  is  simply  wonderful,  in  its  way ; 
but,  Astra,  I  don't  like  its  way  at  all.  The  Offero  (for  I 
suppose  he  is  not  to  be  called  Saint  Christopher  yet,)  is 
much  too  near  to  falling  and  fainting  under  his  burden, — " 

"Perhaps  he  may  literally  do  so,"  interrupted  Astra, 
with  a  sad  and  bitter  smile.  "  Nay,  you  need  not  look  so 
startled,  I  only  mean  that  I  fear  his  supports  are  not  strong 
enough  ;  I  did  not  realize  what  would  be  the  gravitation  of 
such  a  huge  mass  of  clay.  The  figure  is  certainly  settling 
more  than  I  like  to  see." 

"  I  did  not  allude  to  material  supports,"  replied  Carice, 
steadily,  "but  to  that  spiritual  aid  which  the  Christ-Child 
would  be  sure  to  give  to  one  who  bore  Him  so  cheerfully 
and  bi-avely  as  Offero  did,  however  heavily  He  might  be 
pleased  to  burden  him.  There  should  be  more  of  steady 
hope  and  courage,  as  well  as  of  wonder  at  the  supernatural 
weight  of  his  small  burden,  instead  of  that  terrible  strain 
and  agony  of  effort,  and  that  dreary,  dogged  sort  of  re 
solve." 

"You  forget,"  said  Astra,  "that  he  does  not  .yet  under 
stand  the  nature  of  his  burden,  nor  wherefore  it  is  laid 
upon  him; — neither,"  she  added  mournfully  to  herself, 
"neither  do  I/' 

Carice  shook  her  head.  "  You  have  forgotten,"  she 
replied,  "  that  he  is  not  bearing  the  burden  for  himself, 
but  for  love  of  that  far-off,  mighty  King  of  whom  he 


286  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COKDS. 

has  heard;  which  feeling  ought  to  strengthen  his  heart  and 
his  sinews,  and  shine  out  in  his  face." 

Astra  turned  away  her  head.  As  she  had  unconsciously 
wrought  her  own  wretched,  despondent  moods  of  the  past 
week  into  the  sensitive  clay,  so  Carice's  comments  upon  the 
result  had  their  sidelong  application  to  herself. 

"  As  for  the  Christ-Child,"  continued  Carice,  raising  her 
eyes  from  the  Bearer  to  the  Burden,  "  how  did  you  ever 
get  that  look  of  immitigable  fate  into  a  child's  rounded 
face  ?  As  a  piece  of  work,  it  is  almost  miraculous ;  but, 
as  a  conception  of  the  Christ-Child — I  beg  your  pardon, 
Astra — it  is  absolutely  dreadful." 

*'  It  may  stand  for  Offero's  idea  of  the  face  which  he 
cannot  see,"  suggested  Astra,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  might,  if  he  were  thinking  of  the 
face,  which  I  doubt.  That  is  to  say,  the  true  Offero  would 
be  thinking  of  the  King  whom  he  was  trying  to  serve, 
rather  than  the  burthen  that  he  was  bearing.  At  any  rate, 

;it  is  just  because  he  cannot  see  the  face  that  he  has  such  an 
idea  of  it.  But  to  us,  who  can  see  it,  it  ought  to  show 
itself  most  benignant,  most  pitying,  most  tender  and  satis 
fying  in  every  respect.  Else,  we  miss  the  only  really  helpful 
lesson  that  your  Oflfero  is  calculated  to  teach." 

Astra  looked  at  her  friend  half  sadly,  half-wonderingly. 
"  Let  no  one  trust  your  gentle,  innocent  look,  Carice,"  said 
she ;  "  you  are  a  sharp-sighted  critic,  and  as  severe  as  you 
are  sharp-sighted." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  returned  Carice,  "  I  am  not  criticis 
ing  at  all ;  I  am  merely  telling  you  how  your  statue  looks 
to  me,  in  its  unfinished  condition.  No  doubt  every  stroke 
of  that  magical  scraper  of  yours  will  take  away  something 
of  the  look  which  I  do  not  like,  and  put  in  something  of 
that  which  I  long  to  see." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  responded  Astra  drearily,  shaking  her 
head.  "  I  have  not  your  singular  depth  and  simplicity  of 
vision,  in  spiritual  things." 


WITH    A   DOUBLE    HEART.  287 

"  Nay,"  said  Carice,  "  you  have  something  more  than 
that, — the  power  to  create  ;  I  have  only  the  power  to  dis 
cern.  That  cherub  yondei-,  for  instance  ; — I  am  glad  that  I 
am  able  to  see  that  it  is  lovely  beyond  expression,  but  the 
power  to  make  it  so,  ah  !  that  is  beyond  me  !  " 

And  Carice  moved  away  to  the  object  of  her  admira 
tion,  and  seemed  to  forget  herself  and  all  around  her,  in 
contemplating  it. 

Doctor  Remy  remained,  looking  critically  at  the  clay 
figure. 

u  You  have  not  yet  said  what  you  think  of  it,"  said 
Astra,  turning  and  looking  him  intently  in  the  face. 

"  I  had  nothing  to  say — from  the  spiritual  side,"  he 
answered,  coolly.  "  Miss  Bergan  exhausted  that ;  besides, 
it  is  not  in  my  line.  But,  if  you  are  pleased  to  desire  my 
sort  of  criticism,  here  it  is.  That  arm  is  too  long,  and  that 
clavicle  is  not  sufficiently  raised,  and  this  muscle  is  too  flat. 
For  the  rest,"  he  added,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  it  is  a  suf 
ficiently  ambitious  work." 

There  was  a  touch  of  mockery  in  his  tone  which  did 
not  escape  the  sensitive  ear  of  his  listener.  "  You  think  it 
too  ambitious,  perhaps,"  she  said,  quietly,  yet  not  without 
a  keen  glance  at  his  face. 

He  gave  the  clay  figure  another  comprehensive  look ; 
then  he  turned  to  Astra  with  a  gentler  expression  than  she 
had  seen  in  his  eyes  for  many  days  past. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  he,  pityingly,  "  what  disadvantages 
your  genius  has  to  labor  under,  in  this  little,  remote  town, 
where  you  never  see  a  work  of  art,  nor  an  artist,  from 
month's  end  to  month's  end !  Why  do  you  not  go — for 
awhile,  at  least — where  you  can  find  something  for  your 
genius  to  feed  upon  ?  It  is  a  law  of  life  that  there  can  be 
no  good  growth  without  proper  food." 

"  You  know,"  replied  Astra,  very  gravely,  "  that  I  can 
not  leave  my  home  and  my  mother." 

"  Then,"  returned  Doctor  Remy,  with  equal  gravity,  "it 


110LDKN     WITH    TIIK    t'OKDS. 

would  be  a  kindly  blast — though  it  might  not  seem  so,  at 
first — that  should  blow  you  all  to  some  point  where  your 
genius  could  find  fuller  and  freer  development.  If  sueh  :ui 
one  should  ever  come  to  you,  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to 
regard  it  as — what  Miss  JJergan  would  doubtless  call  a 

providence." 

Caricc  was  looking  towards  them,  now  ;  and  his  last 
words  wen-  spoken  with  a  smiling  glance  that  was  appar 
ently  meant  to  draw  her  again  into  the  conversation. 

"And  what  would  Doctor  Remy  call  it  ?  "  she  asked, 
but  without  any  answering  smile. 

"  Doctor  Kemy  does  not  concern  himself  about  names, 
but  things,"  he  replied,  pleasantly. 

"Things  answer  to  names,"  she  rejoined,  quickly;  "  and 
if  Doctor  Kemy  chooses  to  call  a  providence  a  chance,  for 
instance,  let.  him  not  wonder  if  it  prove  a  chance — to  him/' 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  wofully  obtuse,'"  returned  the 
doctor,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  asks  for  a  further  expla 
nation. 

"From  the  hand  of  Chance,"  she  answered  briefly, 
"  one  gets  little  good,  and  much  harm;  from  the  hand  of 
I'rovidonce,  only  good,  however  disguised.  The  difference 
is  in  the  taking  and  the  using." 

She  turned  towards  the  window  as  she  finished,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  dismisses  the  subject. 

Astra,  meanwhile,  stood  gazing  at  the  doctor  with  a 
most  anxious,  disturbed  expression.  She  was  beginning  to 
understand  too  well  that  under  many  of  his  seemingly  most 
careless  utterances,  there  lurked  a  deep  significance  and 
design.  In  the  tone  of  his  last  speech  to  her,  there  had 
been  something  which  caused  her  a  vague  alarm. 

"  What  did  he  mean  ?  "  she  asked  herself,  wearily  put- 
ting  her  hand  to  her  brow, — "What  did  he  mean  V  '' 


VII. 

OVERBURDENED. 

ARICE  BERGAN  was  gifted  with  instincts  singularly 
quick  and  delicate.  She  had  not  long  breathed  the 
same  atmosphere  with  Astra  and  Doctor  licmy 
before  she  felt  it  growing  heavy  around  her  with  some 
intensity  of  emotion  which  she  neither  shared  nor  under 
stood.  It  might  be  sympathy,  it  might  be  aversion ;  in 
either  case,  its  effect  was  to  make  her  feel  confused  and 
constrained,  in  their  presence.  At  one  moment,  she  seemed 
to  behold  them  afar  off,  as  it  were,  in  a  sphere  of  their  own, 
whither  she  had  neither  the  right  nor  the  ability  to  follow 
them ;  at  another,  she  felt  herself  standing  between  them, 
barring  their  way  to  a  free  and  satisfactory  interchange  of 
thought  and  feeling ;  and  again,  she  believed  that  Doctor 
Iteiny  alone  was  responsible  for  her  discomfort,  interrupt 
ing,  by  his  presence,  the  cordial  flow  of  sympathy  between 
Astra  and  herself.  At  any  rate,  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
escape  from  so  oppressive  an  atmosphere ;  accordingly,  she 
took  her  departure,  leaving  the  lovers — if  such  they  can  be 
called — together. 

Certainly,  there  was  nothing  lover-like  in  the  manner 
with  which  they  faced  each  other,  a  few  moments  after  the 
door  had  closed  behind  her.  That  brief  interval  had  been 
spent  by  both  in  preparation  for  the  crisis  which  the  one 
knew,  and  the  other  felt,  to  be  approaching.  Astra  awaited 
it  with  a  mixture  of  eagerness  and  dread ;  she  was  weary 
of  wearing  the  checkered  tissue  of  suspense  and  anxiety; 
she  would  be  glad  to  know  exactly  what  was  in  store  for 
her,  even  though  the  bitter  fruit  of  such  knowledge  should 
13 


290  HOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

be  mortification  and  anguish.  Doctor  Remy's  face  was  set 
and  hard ;  over  it  a  sombre  emotion,  like  the  gray  shadow 
of  a  cloud  on  a  rock,  now  and  then  passed  swiftly,  taking 
nothing  from  its  sternness,  but  adding  much  to  its  gloom. 
He  looked  like  a  man  who,  at  no  slight  cost  to  himself,  has 
braced  his  soul  with  iron  for  the  performance  of  some 
heavy,  but  necessary,  task.  Little  as  he  likes  it,  he  will 
carry  it  out  pitilessly  to  the  end. 

With  an  inauspicious  frown  on  his  brow — none  the  less 
dark  because  it  must  have  been  assumed — he  now  opened 
the  conversation  by  saying,  abruptly ; — 

"Astra,  I  have  heard  some  very  strange  rumors,  of 
late." 

"  Indeed !  "  she  returned,  with  a  note  of  disappoint 
ment,  as  well  as  of  surprise,  in  her  voice.  This  was  but  a 
roundabout  road  to  explanation,  she  thought;  it  would 
have  pleased  her  better  had  the  doctor  chosen  a  more 
direct  one.  She  looked  round  for  a  chair,  and  sat  down 
wearily,  as  if  to  wait  his  pleasure  with  such  patience  as  she 
could  command. 

However,  Doctor  Remy  Avas  going  as  straight  to  the 
point — his  point,  at  least — as  could  be  wished.  "Perhaps 
you  will  be  less  indifferent  to  these  rumors,"  he  continued, 
insinuatingly,  "  when  you  understand  that  they  concern 
you,  and  your  good  name,  much." 

A  slight  flush  rose  to  Astra's  face,  and  her  eyes  lit ;  but 
she  kept  her  seat,  and  she  answered  not  a  word,  though 
Doctor  Rcmy  waited  a  moment,  as  if  he  expected  her  to 
speak.  Seeing  her  silent,  however,  he  went  on,  slowly, 
and  with  seeming  reluctance;  yet,  to  a  keen  and  disin 
terested  observer,  it  might  have  appeared  that  he  was 
trying  his  best  to  provoke  her. 

"  I  once  told  you  that  it  was  not  in  my  nature  to  trust," 
said  he.  "  But  I  have  trusted  you,  Astra,  even  to  blind 
ness, — else  I  should  not  have  been  indebted  to  others  for 
the  first  intimations  of  things  that  I  ought  to  have  seen  for 


OVERBURDENED.  291 

0 

myself.  I  should  have  discovered  what  sort  of  game  you 
were  playing,  before  the  knowledge  was  forced  upon  me  at 
the  hands  of  public  rumor.  I  suppose  that  I  ought  to  take 
shame  to  myself  for  being  so  easily  deceived ; — I  do, — 
nevertheless  your  shame  is  certainly  the  greater  for  having 
so  deceived  me." 

The  flame  in  Astra's  eyes  was  kindling  brightly  now, 
and  her  breath  came  quick  and  short ;  nevertheless,  it  was 
in  a  tone  of  the  coldest  and  quietest  dignity  that  she 
answered ; — 

"  I  am  not  quick  at  reading  riddles  • — be  so  good  as  to 
tell  me,  plainly,  what  yon  mean." 

"As  plainly  as  the  subject  allows,"  returned  Doctor 
Ilemy,  in  a  tone  that  was  in  itself  a  taunt.  '  I  mean  that 
the  names  of  Asti-a  Lyte  and  Bergan  Arling  are  ringing 
together  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other,  in  a  way 
wrhich,  it  may  readily  be  believed,  is  not  pleasant  to  my 
cars.  It  is  confidently  asserted — and  believed — that  a  secret 
engagement  exists  between  them.  That  is  to  say ;  the  lady 
has  long  admitted  the  gentleman  to  a  degree  of  daily  in 
timacy  and  familiarity,  which  she  could  not  with  propriety 
have  accorded  to  any  other  than  her  promised  husband ; — 
some  say,  not  even  to  him.  Mr.  Arling  has  been  observed 
to  be  in  her  studio  for  hours  together ;  he  has  been  seen 
strolling  with  her  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  ;  the  twain 
have  been  noticed  talking  earnestly  together  in  that  out-of- 
the-way  spot  known  as  the  oak  amphitheatre.  On  all  these 
occasions  the  lady  has  been  observed  to  be  so  much  the 
more  demonstrative  of  the  two,  as  to  give  rise  to  the  sus 
picion  that  the  gentleman's  sudden  journey  westward  has 
been  taken,  mainly,  for  the  purpose  of  freeing  himself  from 
entanglements  not  approved  by  his  better  judgment." 

As  these  atrocious  sentences  fell,  one  by  one,  with  dis 
tinct  and  cutting  emphasis,  from  Doctor  Rcmy's  lips,  Astra 
rose  to  her  feet ;  the  flush  on  either  check  settled  into  a 
vivid  crimson  spot,  in  the  midst  of  a  deadly  pallor ;  her 


292  HOLDEN   WITH    THE    CORDS. 

eyes  darted  fire ;  her  lips  trembled  with  the  rush  of  an 
indignation  too  tumultuous,  as  yet,  for  word  or  action. 
Noting  these  signs,  Doctor  Remy  congratulated  himself 
upon  the  successful  progress  of  his  experiment.  Already, 
the  lioness  was  at  bay  ;  with  a  little  more  provocation,  she 
would  think  only  of  vengeance. 

He  resumed  his  statement.  "  At  first,  of  course,  I  paid 
no  attention  to  these  rumors ;  my  ears  and  eyes  were  closed 
against  them  by  that  blind,  foolish  trust  in  you,  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  By  and  by,  they  came  thicker  and  faster, 
and  in  a  shape  to  compel  my  consideration.  I  began  to 
understand  that  the  possible  heir  of  Bergan  Hall  possessed 
an  immense  advantage  over  the  humble  physician ; — al 
though  it  might  be  well  to  keep  a  hold  on  the  latter  until 
the  former  was  secure,  and  his  inheritance  certain.  By 
way  of  two  strings  to  the  bow,  there  might  be  two  secret 
engagements.  I  commenced  an  investigation.  I  traced 
the  reports  which  I  have  mentioned  back  to  their  source — " 

"  You  did  !  "  interrupted  Astra,  with  indignation  that 
she  could  no  longer  repress.  "  Instead  of  sending  these 
foul  slanders  back  down  the  throats  which  invented  them, 
you — "  She  stopped,  choked  by  her  bitter  sense  of  indig 
nity  and  wrong. 

" — took  the  pains  to  verify  them,"  rejoined  Doctor 
Remy,  coolly  finishing  her  sentence.  "Every  accusation 
was  established  in  the  mouths  of  several  witnesses.  Ar- 
ling  himself  had  spoken  frankly,  as  well  as  lightly,  of  his 
engagement,  to  more  than  one  person." 

"  It  is  false,  and  you  know  it ! "  exclaimed  Astra.  "  Mr. 
Arling  is  incapable  of  such  baseness." 

"  Never  mind  defending  Aim,"  said  Doctor  Remy,  with 
a  curl  of  the  lip.  "  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?  " 

Astra  walked  to  the  door,  and  flung  it  wide  open. 
"  I  have  that  to  say,"  she  replied,  turning  upon  him  with 
a  look  of  ineffable  scorn,  and  a  queenly  gesture  of  dismis 
sal.  «  Go ! " 


OVERBURDENED.  293 

Doctor  Remy  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute,  with  an 
unwonted  flush  of  shame  rising  to  his  brow.  The  climax 
had  not  only  come  sooner  than  he  anticipated,  but  in  an 
unexpectedly  embarrassing  shape, — a  shape  that  gave  him 
a  sudden,  startling  perception  of  the  vileness  of  the  task 
which  lie  had  set  himself  to  do.  Naturally,  he  was  inclined 
to  be  angry  with  Astra  for  the  action  to  which  he  owed 
this  moment  of  self- recognition  ;  yet,  on  the  whole,  it  was 
the  most  bewitching  thing  that  he  had  ever  seen  her  do. 
Never  had  she  attracted  him  so  strongly  as  while  she  thus 
stood  pointing  him  to  the  door.  Her  free  and  noble  atti 
tude,  the  wonderful  vividness  of  her  expression,  the  maid 
enly  dignity  of  her  tacit  refusal  to  descend  for  one  moment 
to  his  level,  and  discuss  with  him  the  points  that  he  had 
raised,  thrilled  him  with  involuntary  admiration.  It  irked 
him  to  think  that  he  must  needs  give  her  up.  Was  there 
really  no  way  to  keep  her,  and  at  the  same  time  win  Ber- 
gan  Hall  ?  He  sent  his  thoughts  back  over  the  road  which 
they  had  trodden  so  often,  during  the  past  fortnight,  and  de 
cided  once  more  that  the  risk  was  too  great.  He  must  per 
severe  in  the  course  upon  which  he  had  entered.  Nor  did  a 
little  present  mortification  matter,  in  comparison  with  hope 
ful  progress.  Astra  was  only  helping  him  forward  in  the 
way  that  he  wished  to  go.  How  easily  the  affections  and 
passions  of  others  became  the  puppets  of  his  will ! 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  without  a  softened,  almost  re 
gretful,  tone  that  he  finally  said, — "  If  I  go,  Astra,  you 
understand  that  our  engagement  is  at  an  end." 

"  Our  engagement !  "  repeated  Astra,  looking  at  him 
with  a  kind  of  scornful  amaze.  "How  dare  you  insult  me 
thus  ?  I  was  never  engaged  to  you, — never  !  " 

Doctor  Remy  stood  aghast.  For  one  moment,  he  be 
lieved  that  her  senses  were  taking  leave  of  her. 

O 

"  Never  !  "  repeated  Astra,  with  proud  emphasis.  "  I 
was  engaged,"  she  went  on,  after  a  moment,  in  an  altered 
and  tremulous  tone,  "  to  a  MAST, — a  calm,  wise,  noble  man, 


29-4  IIOLDEN    WITH    T1IK    COKDS. 

— not  a  monster,  nor  a  piece  of  mechanism.  I  was  engaged 
to  an  earnest  seeker  after  truth,  a  courageous  grappler  with 
problems  that  other  men  shunned,  an  honest  speaker  of  his 
own  thoughts  and  moulder  of  his  own  opinions, — a  man 
who.  though  he  might  be  temporarily  led  astray  by  the 
very  excess  of  his  virtues  of  candor,  boldness,  and  integ 
rity,  would  be  sure  to  come  right  in  the  end.  He  is  dead, 
— or  he  never  lived,  except  in  my  imagination, — requiescat 
in  pace.  But  to  you, — a  body  without  a  soul,  an  intellect 
without  a  heart,  a  will  without  a  faith,  a  kind  of  human 
beast  of  prey,  intent  on  nothing  but  the  gratification  of 
his  own  selfish  ends, — to  you  I  was  never  pledged.  I 
would  as  soon  have  bound  myself  to  a  corpse,  or  a  calcu 
lating  machine." 

"This  is  plain  talk,  Astra,"  said  Dr.  Remy,  growing 
pale  with  anger  and  mortification.  "  If  you  were  not  a 
woman,  it  would  be  easier  to  answer  it." 

"It  is  not  only  plain  talk,  but  plain  sight,"  replied 
Astra.  "  The  scales  have  fallen  from  my  eyes ;  at  last,  I 
see  you  as  you  are.  The  most  that  can  be  said  for  you,  as 
well  as  in  excuse  for  my  late  infatuation  (for  I  would  not 
seem  altogether  despicable  in  my  own  eyes),  is  that  great 
and  rich  capabilities  have  been  miserably  perverted,  in  your 
person.  A  grand  soul  has  somehow  been  strangled  within 
you.  Some  hidden  canker — beginning  I  know  not  when 
nor  where,  but  to  which  your  surgeon's  knowledge  ought 
to  have  impelled  you  long  ago  to  put  the  surgeon's  knife — 
has  slowly  eaten  out  everything  that  was  sound  and  good, 
in  your  moral  system,  and  left  nothing  but  rottenness. 
And  it  is  now  too  late  for  remedy.  If  it  were  not, — if  there 
were  any  hope  that  I  could  help  to  save  you,  by  clinging  to 
you, — I  think  I  have  the  strength  and  courage  to  do  it. 
As  it  is,  I  should  only  corrupt  myself.  Indeed,  I  fear  it 
will  be  long  ere  I  get  rid  of  the  virus  of  doubt  and  cap- 
tiousness,  which,  I  find,  you  have  already  introduced  into 
my  mind ;  and  of  which  that  figure "  (she  pointed  to  the 


OVERBURDENED.  295 

statue  of  clay)  "is  the  legitimate  outcome.  You  have 
given  a  bias  to  my  mode  of  thought,  which  has  already 
shaken  my  faith  to  its  foundations, — and  might,  in  time 
(but  for  the  scathing  commentary  of  your  life  upon  your 
opinions),  have  destroyed  it.  Leave  me  now.  We  have 
done  with  each  other." 

Perhaps  Dr.  Remy's  good  angel,  absent  from  his  side 
for  many  years,  hovered,  at  that  moment,  above  his  head, 
with  a  wistful — almost  a  hopeful — face.  For,  at  last,  the 
strong  man  was  visibly  affected.  Some  chance  word  of 
Astra's  had  found  a  joint  in  his  iron  armor,  and  penetrated 
to  the  living  flesh.  His  lip  trembled, — it  may  have  been 
with  an  unshaped  prayer  to  Astra  to  make  that  effort  to 
save  him,  of  which  she  had  declared  herself  capable, — it 
may  have  been  with  a  sudden  perception  of  the  barrenness 
of  his  life,  and  the  valuelessness  of  its  ends,  disposing  him, 
for  a  moment,  to  try  whether  any  richer  realities  were  to  be 
reaped  from  an  unselfish  human  affection  and  an  unques 
tioning  heavenly  faith. 

But  not  thus  easily  and  quickly  was  the  whole  bent  of  a 
life  to  be  changed,  not  thus  the  holding  of  the  cords  of  evil 
to  be  loosed  !  Suddenly,  between  him  and  Astra,  rose  a 
vision  of  Bergan  Hall,  with  its  immense  revenues,  its 
ancient  and  aristocratic  prestige,  the  vast  power  and  influ 
ence  that  it  would  impart  to  capable  hands,  the  abundant 
means  and  leisure  that  it  would  allow  for  scientific  pursuits. 
For,  if  Doctor  Remy  lived  for  anything  besides  himself,  it 
was  for  science.  He  had  managed  to  persuade  himself  that 
the  interests  of  the  two  were  identical.  He  had  embodied 
his  selfishness,  as  it  were,  in  a  theory  ;  for  the  development, 
confirmation,  and  proclamation,  of  which,  he  believed  that 
he  desired  leisure  and  wealth,  far  more  than  for  himself; 
and  through  which  he  meant  to  be  a  benefactor  to  his  race, 
as  well  as  to  wreathe  his  own  name  with  undying  laurels. 
On  the  one  hand,  then,  was  this  wide  prospect  of  wealth, 
freedom,  usefulness,  and  fame ;  on  the  other,  Astra,  and  a 


21)0  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COKDS. 

life  of  restrictions  and  limitations,  narrowed  down  to  the 
daily  necessity  of  daily  bread.  Quickly  he  made  his  choice. 
The  angel  spread  his  white  wings,  and  flew  upward, — never 
to  return ! 

Doctor  Remy  turned  to  Astra,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"  Let  us  part  friends,"  said  he. 

"  Not  so,"  replied  Astra ;  "  let  us  part — as  we  are  to 
remain — strangers.  No  need  to  mock  the  sacred  past  with 
the  commonplace  civilities  of  ordinary  intercourse.  The 
relation  that  once  existed  between  us  is  simply  dead,  not 
changed  into  something  else." 

"  As  you  will,"  returned  Doctor  Remy,  after  a  pause. 
"  At  least  let  me  wish  you  a  short  mourning,  and  a  bright 
thereafter.  Adieu." 

He  went  out  as  he  spoke,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
In  his  excitement,  he  used  more  force  than  he  was  aware  o£> 
and  it  fell  to  with  a  clangor  that  reverberated  loudly  through 
the  large,  uncai-peted  room,  and  jarred  painfully  upon  Astra's 
nerves.  She  shivered,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  clay  figure. 
Apparently,  it  was  trembling  with  sympathetic  emotion  ;  it 
even  bent  toward  her,  as  if  suddenly  endued  with  life ;  for 
one  moment,  the  old  fable  of  Pygmalion  seemed  coming 
true,  in  her  modern  experience.  Then,  the  limbs  gave  way, 
the  trunk  fell  forward,  down  went  Bearer  and  Child  to 
gether,  the  faces  of  each  giving  her  one  last,  distorted  look 
of  malign  meaning,  ere  they  crushed  into  fragments  on  the 
platform. 

"  It  is  not  the  only  ruin  that  he  has  left  behind  him," 
murmured  Astra  to  herself,  with  a  sad  and  bitter  smile. 

In  another  moment,  she  too  began  to  sink.  The  long 
fever  of  suspense  was  ended ;  the  excitement  that  had  car 
ried  her  through  the  late  trying  interview  was  over ;  the 
inevitable  time  of  reaction  and  depression  had  come.  The 
thought  of  the  terrible  blank  left  in  her  heart  and  life,  of 
the  woful  loss  of  affection,  faith,  and  hope,  that  she  had 
suffered,  of  the  miserable  waste  in  her  past,  and  ot  the 


OVERBURDENED.  297 

chaotic  emptiness  in  her  future,  came  over  her  with  awful 
force.  Slowly  she  sank,  as  if  an  invisible  weight  were 
pressing  her  to  the  earth.  Settling  upon  her  knees,  she 
leaned  her  head  on  the  ruins  of  her  statue,  and  shook  with 
sobs  of  tearless  agony. 

She  knew  not  how  long  a  time  went  by  thus ;  it  seemed 
to  her  to  stretch  its  slow  length  over  an  age.  But  it  is  a 
merciful  provision  that  acute  sorrow  soon  exhausts  itself. 
The  mind,  like  the  body,  has  beneficent  limits  to  its  power 
of  endurance.  In  due  time,  Astra  exchanged  the  anguish 
of  wretchedness  for  its  torpor.  Her  sobs  died  away,  the 
convulsive  trembling  of  her  frame  ceased,  she  sat  up  and 
looked  around  her  with  a  face  of  quiet  misery.  Perhaps  it 
was  a  little  hard,  too.  Her  pride  was  coming  to  her  aid  in 
bearing  the  burden  for  which,  she  told  herself,  she  was 
largely  accountable,  and  must  therefore  struggle  along 
with  as  best  she  could.  It  was  miraculously  heavy,  it 
would  tax  all  her  strength  and  resolution,  she  saw  that 
plainly  enough  ;  but  she  forgot  to  look  into  it  for  any  sign 
of  divine  origin,  or  promise  of  divine  help.  The  baleful 
effect  of  Doctor  Remy's  influence  still  followed  her,  mak 
ing  God  an  overhanging  Law,  instead  of  a  surrounding 
Love.  She  could  not  even  read  aright  the  lesson  of  her 
own  fragments  of  clay  ! 

She  was  struggling  up  to  hor  feet,  when  Mrs.  Lyte  hur 
riedly  entered,  holding  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  and 
looking  both  frightened  and  bewildered.  Perhaps  nothing 
could  have  been  better  for  either  mother  or  daughter,  at 
that  moment,  than  to  see  the  other's  troubled  face.  In 
both  countenances,  there  was  a  quick  change  of  expression, 
— something  of  SOITOW  and  anxiety  gone,  something  of 
loving  sympathy  in  its  place, — as  each  uttered  the  eager 
inquiry; — 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Fortunately,  Astra  was  not  obliged  to  answer.  Mrs. 
Lyte  instantly  discovered  the  fallen  statue,  and  connected 


S98  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

it,  though  not  without  a  degree  of  surprise,  with  her 
daughter's  woe-begone  face.  For  Astra  had  been  wont  to 
bear  disaster  with  more  fortitude !  Still,  this  was  the  larg 
est  work  that  she  had  yet  undertaken  ;  besides,  she  had 
seemed  so  far  from  well,  of  late  !  Mrs.  Lyte's  heart 
thrilled  with  motherly  sympathy. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  she  said,  pityingly.  "  Is  it  an  utter 
ruin  ?  " 

"  Utter,"  replied  Astra,  with  dreary  emphasis.  "  But 
never  mind  about  it  now.  What  has  happened  to  distress 
you?" 

Mrs.  Lyte  put  the  letter  into  Astra's  hand.  "  Read 
that,"  said  she,  "  and  see  what  you  can  make  of  it." 

It  was  not  without  difficulty,  imder  the  pressure  of  hci 
own  misery,  that  Astra  made  herself  comprehend  the  pur 
port  of  the  document  before  her,  through  the  disguise  of 
the  legal  terms  wherein  it  had  duly  been  couched  by  the 
lawyer  employed  by  Major  Bergan.  With  enlightenment, 
however,  strange  to  say,  came  a  quick  sense  of  relief. 
Here,  at  least,  was  a  necessity  for  action  ;  and  the  trouble 
which  is  attended  by  that,  is  never  so  great  as  one  which 
calls  only  for  patient  endurance.  Besides,  how  glad  would 
she  be  to  leave  Berganton  at  this  juncture,  to  escape  at 
once  from  its  curiosity,  its  sympathy,  or  its  censure,  to  be 
spared  the  pain  of  meeting  Doctor  Remy's  altered  face, 
and  the  irksomeness  of  going  on  with  the  old  life,  in  the 
old  scene,  after  it  had  lost  all  the  old  color  and  substance. 
Her  face  brightened  so  much,  as  she  looked  up  from  the 
letter,  that  Mrs.  Lyte  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Then  it  is  not  so  bad  as  I  thought,"  said  she. 

Astra's  heart  smote  her  for  her  selfishness.  She  re 
flected  what  grief  it  would  cause  her  mother  to  be  thrust 
out  from  the  home  endeared  to  her  by  so  many  and  sacred 
associations.  Her  face  fell,  and  her  heart  sank  again. 
Covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  she  burst  into  a  sudden 
passion  of  tears, — a  softer  agony  than  had  shaken  her  be- 


OVERBURDENED.  299 

fore,  but  still  so  plainly  an  agony  disproportionate  to  the 
occasion,  that  Mrs.  Lyte's  eyes  suddenly  opened  to  the 
perception  of  some  hitherto  unsuspected  sorrow.  She  put 
her  arms  round  her  daughter,  and  drew  her  head  on  to  her 
bosom,  as  in  the  days  of  her  childhood. 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  soft  tone,  the  affectionate  touch,  the  motherly  sym 
pathy,  were  irresistible.  Before  she  well  knew  what  she 
was  doing,  Astra  was  pouring  forth  all  her  sad  story. 

"  Oh,  mother !  "  she  moaned,  as  she  finished,  "  if  we 
could  only  go  away, — just  for  a  time,  at  least,  until  I  have 
recovered  myself  a  little !  If  we  could  only  go  at  once, 
too,  without  explanations  or  farewells  !  " 

"  We  will,  my  child,"  returned  Mrs.  Lyte,  soothingly, 
— "  that  is,  if  I  can  manage  it." 

Then  followed  a  long  consultation. 


vm. 

A    BUSINESS    LETTER. 

FROM  Astra's  studio,  Doctor  Remy  went  to  his  office, 
and  devoted  an  hour  to  the  task  of  writing  a  letter  ; 
which  seemed  to  make  an  unusual  demand  upon  his 
skill,  either  of  composition  or  penmanship.  Three  different 
sheets  were  defaced  and  destroyed,  ere  the  work  was 
accomplished  to  his  mind.  The  epistle  was  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Lyte,  enclosing  what  purported  to  be  the  amount  of 
an  old,  outlawed  debt  to  her  deceased  husband  ;  of  which 
the  debtor,  having  recently  met  with  a  stroke  of  good 
fortune,  was  glad  to  relieve  his  conscience.  In  good  time, 
after  making  a  short  detour,  it  arrived  at  its  destination  ; 
and  played  an  important  part  in  events,  by  furnishing  Mrs. 
Lyte  with  au  opportune  sum  of  ready  money. 

Five  days  afterward,  as  Major  Bergan  was  about  to 
sally  forth  for  his  customary  morning  visit  to  his  beloved 
rice  fields,  a  letter  was  put  into  his  hands.  It  ran  as 
follows : 

"DEAR  MAJOR  BERGAN:  I  duly  received  your  notice 
of  foreclosure,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  measure  of  forbear 
ance  that  you  have  hitherto  exercised  toward  me.  As  you 
are  doubtless  aware,  I  have  no  means  of  paying  off  the 
mortgage,  except  by  the  sale  of  the  property  which  it 
covers.  As  I  am  about  to  leave  Berganton,  for  a  time,  on 
account  of  my  daughter's  health,  I  hereby  surrender  my 
house  and  grounds  into  your  hands,  to  be  sold,  or  other 
wise  disposed  of,  as  you  may  deem  best  for  our  mutual 
interests.  If  they  sell  for  more  than  the  amount  of  the 


A   BUSINESS    LETTER.  301 

mortgage  (as  I  hope  they  will),  I  know  I  may  safely  trust 
to  you,  as  a  man  of  honor,  and  a  good  friend  of  my  late 
husband,  to  hold  the  balance  subject  to  my  order.  You 
will  find  the  house  in  charge  of  my  old  and  faithful  servant, 
Cato ;  whom  I  also  venture  to  commend  to  your  kind  care, 
until  I  shall  be  able  to  send  for  him.  I  cannot  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  sell  him ;  besides,  he  is  too  old  to  be  of  much 
value,  though  still  quite  able  to  earn  his  bread,  on  your 
plantation. 

"  This  is  not  a  man's  way  of  doing  business,  I  am  well 
aware;  it  is  only  a  woman's  way  of  shirking  responsibility, 
in  matters  that  she  does  not  understand.  I  know  that  my 
interests  are  safer  in  your  hands  than  in  my  own.  As  soon 
as  I  am  comfortably  settled  anywhere,  I  will  let  you  know 
my  address.  Till  then,  believe  me, 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"CATHERINE  LYTE." 

It  will  be  seen  that  this  epistle  was  a  masterpiece  of 
diplomacy,  in  its  way.  Though  it  proved  Mrs.  Lyte  to  be 
a  most  unbusiness-like  woman,  it  none  the  less  evinced  her 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  one-sided  and  contradictory 
character  of  the  man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  Grasping 
and  impracticable  as  Major  Bergan  would  be  sure  to  be, 
with  a  surly  and  obstinate  debtor  who  met  him  squarely 
on  his  own  ground,  she  believed  that  he  would  not  fail  to 
show  himself  scrupulously  just,  and  even  generous,  to  the 
woman  who,  without  a  word  of  reproach  or  remonstrance, 
quietly  resigned  herself  and  her  affairs  into  hjs  hands,  to  be 
dealt  with  according  to  his  good  pleasure. 

In  this  conclusion,  she  was  justified  by  the  event.  A 
more  astonished  and  disgusted  man  than  Major  Bergan, 
after  he  had  mastered  the  contents  of  her  letter,  it  would 
be  hard  to  find.  For  once,  even  his  brandy  bottle  was 
empty  of  comfort.  He  could  only  partially  relieve  his 
mind,  while  his  horse  was  being  saddled,  by  pouring  forth 


302  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    CORDS. 

volley  upon  volley  of  curses ;  distributed,  impartial!}7,  at 
first,  among  Mrs.  Lyte,  Doctor  Remy,  his  nephew,  his 
frightened  servants,  and  himself.  Later,  his  wrath  began 
to  concentrate  itself  on  Doctor  Remy.  That  personage 
had  undoubtedly  influenced  him  to  the  commission  of  the 
act  which  he  now  stigmatized,  in  his  most  emphatic  man 
ner,  as  unworthy  a  Bergan  and  a  gentleman.  In  return,  he 
threatened  tp  break  every  bone  in  the  doctor's  body,  and 
grimly  consigned  the  fragments  to  a  place  of  deposit 
always  much  in  favor  with  men  of  his  habits.  Finally,  he 
mounted  his  horse,  and  trotted  rapidly  toward  Berganton. 
His  fii'st  visit  was,  of  course,  to  Doctor  Remy.  With 
the  most  imperturbable  good  humor,  that  gentleman  lis 
tened  to  the  flow  of  his  oaths  and  objurgations,  until  it  had 
partially  exhausted  itself  by  its  own  fury.  He  then  assured 
the  Major  that  his  surprise  and  regret  at  Mrs.  Lyte's  depar 
ture  were  fully  equalled  by  his  own.  The  thing  had  been 
managed  so  quietly  and  adroitly,  that  he  had  not  suspected 
it,  until  his  attention  had  been  attracted  by  the  deserted 
look  of  the  house.  At  the  same  time,  he  must  acknowledge 
that  it  was  only  a  short  time  since  he  had  advised  Mrs. 
Lyte  to  try  a  change  of  air,  both  for  herself  and  her  daugh 
ter  ;  and  doubtless  that  had  had  its  share  in  influencing  her 
action.  Besides,  it  was  on  the  whole  the  best  thincc  that 

/  O 

she  could  do  to  take  Miss  Astra  out  of  the  way,  until  the 
present  cloud  of  gossip  had  blown  over.  Finally,  he  threw 
out  a  suggestion  that  the  twain  had  possibly  gone  to  join 
Mr.  Arling. 

Hereupon,  Major  Bergan's  wrath  broke  out  afresh.  It 
was  not  in  human  nature — certainly  not  in  that  particular 
species  of  human  nature  represented  by  the  Major — to  hear 
with  equanimity  that  the  very  measure  which  he  had  taken 
to  prevent  what  he  considered  to  be  an  unsuitable  mar 
riage,  had  possibly  availed  to  hasten  it  forward.  The  walls 
of  the  doctor's  office  trembled  with  the  oral  thunderbolts 
launched  at  the  offenders.  In  due  time,  however,  these  also 


A   BUSINESS   LETTER.  303 

subsided  into  the  low  growl  of  the  exhausted  tempest ; 
dying  away,  at  last,  in  muttered  imprecations  upon  that 
curious  turn  of  events — the  grim  humor  of  Avhich  the  Ma 
jor  was  now  quite  capable  of  appreciating — which  had 
made  him  the  trustee  of  Mrs.  Lyte's  affairs,  and  the  guar 
dian  of  her  interests. 

To  the  Major's  credit  be  it  spoken,  that  he  was  incapable 
of  betraying  the  trust  thus  committed  to  him.  Quitting 
Doctor  Kemy's  office,  he  went  in  search  of  old  Cato,  put 
the  premises  in  his  charge  during  the  absence  of  his  mis 
tress,  promised  him.  an  occasional  visit  of  inspection  (and  a 
sound  thrashing  if  all  was  not  found  in  complete  order), 
made  due  provision  for  his  maintenance,  and  then  took 
himself  grumblingly  home,  to  drown  the  remnant  of  his 
chagiin  in  the  Lethean  glass  that  had  already  swallowed 
up  so  many  of  his  better  thoughts,  impulses,  and  character 
istics. 

Of  course,  Mrs.  Lyte's  departure — or  flight,  as  it  was 
not  infrequently  termed — made  the  nine  days'  wonder  of 
Berganton.  Some  few  gentle,  charitable  souls  there  were, 
no  doubt,  who,  judging  their  neighbor  by  themselves,  saw 
no  harm  either  in  the  fact  or  the  manner  of  her  going.  She 
was  ill ;  so  was  her  daughter ;  they  had  neither  time  nor 
heart  for  leavetakings.  But  there  were  others,  wise  in  the 
crooked  ways  of  the  human  heart  through  much  practice 
therein,  who  scrupled  not  to  find  motives  and  objects  for 
the  course  of  the  pale-faced  widow  and  her  gifted  daughter, 
with  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  stain  this  page.  There 
was  the  more  room  for  this,  inasmuch  as  Major  Bergan, 
partly  out  of  consideration  for  Mrs.  Lytc,  and  partly  out  of 
shame  on  his  own  account,  had  taken  care  that  the  exist 
ence  of  the  mortgage  should  not  transpire.  Yet  Mrs.  Lyte 
had  depended  upon  the  ultimate  disclosure  of  this  fact,  to 
furnish  that  explanation  of  her  departure  which  she  had 
shunned  to  give  herself,  and  to  turn  the  current  of  popular 
sympathy  in  her  favor.  In  yielding  to  Astra's  morbid 


304  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

desire  not  only  to  leave  the  scene  of  her  untoward  love  be 
hind,  but  to  do  it  in'  such  swift  and  silent  wise  that  neither 
curiosity,  nor  sympathy,  nor  malevolence,  could  immedi 
ately  follow  them,  to  inflict  their  various  torture  upon  her 
sore  heart,  Mrs.  Lyte  had  looked  confidently  forward  to 
this  forthcoming  justification  of  her  step.  Her  old  friends, 
she  thought,  would  be  sure  to  understand  the  feeling  that 
led  her  to  flee  from  the  sight  of  the  sale  of  her  lifelong 

o  o 

home  (it  might  be  under  the  auctioneer's  hammer),  and  to 
shut  off  all  means  of  communication  between  herself  and 
the  painful  transaction,  until  time  had  given  her  strength 
to  bear  it. 

Next  to  Major  Bergan,  the  person  who  felt  most  ag 
grieved  at  the  fact  and  manner  of  her  departure  was  Ca- 
rice.  Astra,  to  be  sure,  had  not  failed  to  send  her  friend  a 
brief  note  of  farewell ;  but  it  was  couched  in  such  vague 
terms,  owing  to  the  confusion  and  distress  of  mind  in  which 
it  had  been  written,  as  to  afford  little  satisfaction  to  the 
reader.  She  could  only  gather  from  it  that,  in  one  way  or 
another,  Astra's  happiness  was  very  seriously  compromised ; 
so  much  so  as  to  make  a  change  desirable,  though  it  were 
only  a  change  of  pain.  And,  in  Carice's  present  circum 
stances,  this  was  either  too  much  or  too  little.  The  rumors 
which  had  filled  Berganton  had  found  their  way  to  Oak- 
stead  also  ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  parents  and 
daughter  were  divided  in  sentiment,  and  alien  in  sympathy. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bergan — terrified  that  their  idolized  child 
should  have  given  her  heart  to  a  mair  persistently  held  up 
to  view  as  a  thin  mask  of  outward  morality  over  an  inward 
rottenness  of  intemperance,  indebtedness,  and  unscrupulous 
ti'ifling  with  affection — could  think  of  no  better  way  of  cor 
recting  the  mischief  than  by  continually  repeating  in  her 
unwilling  ears  the  various  dark  rumors  in  circulation,  to 
gether  with  such  facts  and  theories  as  tended  to  confirm 
them.  Carice,  on  her  part,  turned  from  them  all  with  the 
instinctive  disgust  of  a  pure  mind,  and  the  generous  faith 


A    BUSINESS    LETTER.  305 

and  confidence  of  a  true  affection.  And  she  was  right. 
Trust,  as  long  as  it  is  in  anywise  possible,  is  the  heart's 
deepest  wisdom,  as  well  as  its  surest  instinct. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  hard  to  find  her  parents  arrayed 
against  her,  with  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Duty,  decorum, 
forbade  her  to  set  up  her  own  opinion  in  opposition  to 
theirs  ;  often  she  had  but  to  listen  in  silence  to  statements 
and  inferences  which  she  could  neither  admit  nor  disprove. 
She  would  have  been  glad,  therefore,  had  Astra's  note  fur 
nished  one  scrap  of  evidence  in  support  of  her  own  convic 
tions  ;  on  the  contrary,  its  testimony  went  quite  the  other 
way.  She  could  only  neutralize  its  effect  upon  herself  by 
supposing  that  Astra  had  given  her  affections  to  Bergan  un 
sought,  and  was  now  suffering  from  a  disappointment  none 
the  less  bitter  that  she  had  brought  it  upon  herself.  But 
Carice  was  too  delicate  and  generous  to  breathe  this  sus 
picion  aloud ;  at  the  same  time  she  knew  that  it  would 
have  no  weight  with  minds  so  deeply  prejudiced  as  those 
of  her  parents. 

Carice's  worst  trial  was,  however,  her  growing  wonder 
why  nothing  was  beard  from  Bergan.  His  last  words  to 
her  had  been  a  promise  to  write  immediately,  both  to  her 
father  and  herself, — to  the  former  by  way  of  frankly  avow 
ing  his  love,  ani  asking  for  permission  to  address  his 
daughter;  to  the  latter,  as  a  necessary  sequence  to  that 
brief  interview  by  the  singing  river,  the  thought  of  which 
was  Carice's  one  subject  of  delightful  contemplation.  But 
no  letter  came,  not  so  much  as  a  word  of  regret  or  excuse 
for  necessary  delay.  As  time  dragged  its  slow  length  along, 
a  touching  look  of  wistfulness,  mingled  with  a  sorrowful 
patience,  came  into  the  face  that  had  lately  been  so  serenely 
happy, — a  look  over  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bergan  scarcely 
knew  whether  most  to  lament  or  to  rejoice.  It  was  griev 
ous  to  behold  it  there;  and  yet,  if  Bergan  would  only  keep 
silent,  she  must  eventually  give  him  up  ! 

Alas  for  Carice  !  there  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  Bei1- 


306  HOLDEN    WITH    TIIE    CORDS. 

gan  would  keep  silent — or  seem  to  do  so.  Her  parents' 
minds  would  have  been  set  at  rest  on  that  point,  if  they 
could  invisibly  have  followed  Doctor  Remy  into  the  Ber- 
ganton  Post  Office  some  weeks  previous,  and  listened  to  his 
conversation  with  the  pale,  slight,  weak-looking  young 
man  in  charge.  One  month  before,  he  had  so  obstinately 
and  successfully  fought  death  at  the  bedside  of  this  young 
man's  newly  wedded  wife,  as  to  call  forth  an  unusual 
amount  of  gratitude.  To  this  fact  he  now  alluded. 

"  Well,  Jekyll,"  said  he,  "  I  have  come  to  make  trial  of 
that  eternal  gratitude  which  you  swore  to  me,  not  long 
ago." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  sir,"  responded  Jekyll,  warmly. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  V  " 

"  The  question  is  rather,  what  will  you  do  for  me  ?  " 
returned  the  doctor,  with  marked  emphasis. 

"  Anything,  anything,  that  is  not  wrong,"  replied  Jekyll. 

"Right  and  wrong  are  relative  terms,"  replied  Doctor 
Remy,  quietly.  "If  you  had  understood  the  nature  of  the 
drugs  which  I  gave  your  wife  the  other  night,  you  would 
have  said  that  I  was  trying  to  poison  her ; — yet,  you  see,  I 
saved  her  life.  It  is  the  motive  which  determines  the 
character  of  the  act." 

"Y-e-s,  sir,"  rejoined  Jekyll,  considerably  bewildered ; 
but,  nevertheless,  feeling  quite  certain  that  so  learned  a 
man  as  Doctor  Remy  must  understand  these  matters  a 
great  deal  better  than  he  did. 

"And  so,"  continued  the  doctor,  suavely,  " what  I  am 
about  to  ask  you  to  do,  is  not  really  wrong,  though  it  may 
seem  so  at  first  sight.  It  is  only  a  quiet  method  of  avert 
ing  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  scandal  from  a  very  worthy 
family.  Should  you  recognize  this  handwriting,  if  you 
were  to  see  it  again  ?  " 

Jekyll  looked  at  the  paper  held  towaixls  him,  and  an 
swered, — "  Yes,  certainly  ;  it  is — " 

"  Never  mind  whose  it  is,"  interrupted  the  doctor  ;  "  it 


A   BUSINESS    LETTER.  307 

is  just  as  well  not  to  know  anything  abont  that.  Well, 
Jekyll,  what  I  want  you  to  do,  is  simply  to  keep  a  sharp 
lookout  for  any  letters,  in  that  handwriting,  which  may 
come  to  Godfrey  Bergan,  or  his  daughter,  or  his  wife, 
and  hand  them  over  to  me." 

Jekyll  opened  his  eyes  wide  with  surprise  and  terror. 
"  Good  gracious  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  it's  a  penitentiary  busi 
ness  ! " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Doctor  Remy,  calmly.  "  In  the 
first  place,  no  one  will  know  anything  about  it  but  you  and 
me.  In  the  second,  you  are  not  doing  this  thing  for  your 
own  advantage,  but  just  to  help  me  to  save  certain  excel 
lent  people  from  sore  sorrow  and  trouble." 

Jekyll  did  not  answer,  but  he  still  looked  dismayed  and 
unconvinced. 

"  If  it  will  ease  your  scruples  any,"  pursued  the  doctor, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  in  confidence,  that 
Mr.  Godfrey  Bergan  very  much  desires  the  suppression  of 
these  letters,  though  he  does  not  want  to  appear  in  the  mat 
ter  himself.  And  you  must  admit  that  he  has  a  right  to 
control  the  correspondence  of  his  own  household. 

"But  why  does  he  want  his  own  letters  stopped?" 
asked  Jekyll. 

"  For  the  best  of  reasons, — he  does  not  want  to  receive 
them.  He  prefers  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  hears  nothing, 
and  knows  nothing.  Therefore,  yon  will  readily  understand 
that  nothing  is  to  be  said,  or  even  hinted,  to  him.  He  puts 
the  matter  in  nay  hands,  and  you  are  responsible  to  me 
only." 

It  is  unnecessary  to  trace  the  conversation  to  the  end. 
Its  results  are  already  patent  to  the  reader.  Doctor  Remy 
was  specious  and  plausible  ;  Jekyll  was  weak  and  grateful ; 
the  yielding  of  the  pliant  nature  of  the  former  to  the 
stronger  one  of  the  latter,  could  only  be  a  question  of  time. 


IX. 

SMOOTHER   THAN   BUTTER. 

sooner  was  the  way  made  clear,  by  the  removal  of 
Bergan  and  Astra,  than  Doctor  Remy  began  to 
visit  assiduously  at  Oakstead  ;  taking  good  care,  at 
first,  that  the  object  of  these  visits  should  seem  to  be  any 
thing  but  Carice.  He  came  to  discuss  local  politics  or  town 
hygiene  with  Mr.  Bergan ;  or  he  sought  to  interest  his  wife 
in  some  newly  discovered  object  of  charity.  By  and  by,  it 
was  a  mere  matter  of  pleasant  habit,  appai'ently,  that  he 
stopped  at  Oakstead  four  or  five  times  a  week,  as  he  came 
and  went  on  his  professional  rounds. 

If  Cai'ice  was  absent,  on  these  occasions,  he  never  asked 
for  her;  if  she  was  present,  he  rarely  addressed  his  conver 
sation  to  her ;  nevertheless  he  weighed  every  word,  and 
shaped  every  sentence,  with  artful  reference  to  its  effect 
upon  her  ear  and  mind.  Every  resource  of  his  tact  and 
skill  was  exhausted,  in  his  effort  to  attract  and  keep  the 
attention  of  the  fair,  silent  girl,  sitting  in  the  shadow,  with 
the  drooping  head,  and  the  patient,  pi'eoccupied  face. 

It  was  long  ere  he  could  congratulate  himself  upon  any 
measure  of  success.  The  little  that  Carice  had  hitherto 
known  of  Doctor  Remy,  she  had  intuitively  disliked.  She 
now  acknowledged  that  she  had  scarcely  done  him  justice  in 
her  thought ;  or  he  had  changed  since  then.  Occasionally, 
in  his  mention  of  his  poorer  patients,  there  peeped  out 
traits  of  thoughtful  kindness  and  generosity, — or  something 
that  looked  like  them, — for  which  she  would  never  have 
given  him  credit.  She"  was  glad  to  know  that  he  was  better 
than  he  had  seemed.  But  here  the  matter  ended,  so  far  as 


SMOOTHER  THAN  BUTTER.  309 

she  was  concerned.  She  did  not  care  for  him,  personally; 
she  shunned  his  visits,  as  much  as  possible  ;  when  compelled 
to  be  present,  she  oftenest  sat  a  little  apart,  thinking  her 
own  thoughts  over  her  embroidery  or  her  drawing,  and 
letting  the  brightest  flow  of  his  conversation  pass  by  her 
unheeded. 

But  so  consummate  a  social  strategist  as  Doctor  Remy 
was  not  thus  to  be  baffled.  One  day,  he  took  fitting  occa 
sion  to  bring  Bergan's  name  into  his  talk, — speaking  of 
him  quietly  and  unconcernedly,  as  it  was  natural  to  speak 
of  a  man  with  whom  he  had  been  intimately  associated  for 
some  months, — and  speaking  of  him  kindly,  too,  as  of  one 
for  whom  he  entertained  a  real  regard.  Carice  turned 
away  her  head,  and  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  It  was  so 
long  since  she  had  heard  Bergan's  name  spoken  in  a 
friendly  tone,  and  unaccompanied  by  a  disparaging  com 
mentary  !  When  she  ventured  to  look  at  Doctor  Remy,  it 
was  with  a  soft,  grateful  expression,  which  he  did  not  fail 
to  detect  and  understand.  There  was  a  certain  wistfulness, 
also,  as  of  a  flower  which,  having  been  refreshed  by  one 
little  drop  of  unexpected  dew,  opens  its  petals  for  more. 
This,  too,  the  doctor  understood,  and  was  too  wise  to  dis 
appoint. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he,  turning  to  Mr.  Bergan,  "  per 
haps  I  can  give  you  the  latest  news  from  your  sister, — I 
had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Arlingthis  morning." 

Carice's  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  of  mingled  pleasure 
and  pain.  At  last  she  was  to  hear  something ; — yet,  cer 
tainly,  it  ought  not  to  be  in  this  roundabout  way. 

"  It  will  be  the  earliest  news  as  well  as  the  latest," 
responded  Mr.  Bergan,  drily  ;  "  I  have  heard  nothing,  as 
yet." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  exclaimed  Doctor  Remy,  with  well- 
feigned  surprise ;  "  I  had  no  idea  of  that.  Still,  severe 
sickness  is  an  engrossing  guest  in  a  house,  as  I  often  have 
occasion  to  notice;  outside  friends  arc  apt  to  be  forgotten, 


310  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

or  rather  ignored,  except  as  they  can  be  made  useful. 
Probably,  Arling  would  not  have  written  to  me,  if  he  had 
not  wanted  something  supplementary  to  certain  medical 
suggestions  with  which  I  furnished  him,  when  he  left,  and 
which  seem  to  have  been  of  use.  Anyway,  I  am  glad  to 
be  able  to  tell  you  that  the  fever  has  passed  the  crisis." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  returned  Mr.  Bergan,  heartily 
enough,  yet  with  an  evident  dislike  of  the  subject.  Carice 
being  present,  he  could  not  forget  that  talking  of  Mrs. 
Arling  was  the  next  thing  to  talking  of  her  son. 

Mrs.  Bergan,  however,  was  more  alive  to  the  demands 
both  of  kinship  and  of  courtesy.  "  Is  our  sister  out  of 
danger,  then  ?  "  she  asked  with  interest. 

"  Except  as  there  is  always  danger  of  a  relapse," 
answered  Doctor  Remy.  "  Still,  judging  from  Mr.  Arling's 
letter,  I  should  say  that  there  is  good  reason  to  hope  that 
his  mother's  convalescence  will  be  sure  and  swift.  In  th«it 
case,  we  may  look  for  him  back  among  us,  ere  long." 

Mr.  Bergan  frowned  ;  Carice  turned  away  her  face,  that 
her  gladness  might  not  be  seen  shining  in  her  eyes.  This, 
then,  was  the  reason  why  Bergan  had  not  written  to  Oak- 
stead.  At  first,  there  had  been  engrossing  anxiety  and 
fear  ;  then,  finding  that  he  should  soon  be  able  to  come  and 
plead  his  cause  in  person,  lie  had  not  thought  it  wise  to 
commit  it  to  the  colder  advocacy  of  a  letter.  There  were 
many  advantages  in  a  face-to-face  discussion;  especially 
where,  as  he  doubtless  suspected,  prejudice  was  to  be  met 
and  overcome  !  And  he  could  not  honorably  write  to  her, 
until  he  had  written  to  her  father. 

Nor  would  she  admit,  even  to  herself,  that  this  explana 
tion  did  not  quite  cover  every  point,  that  it  hardly  excused 
Bergan  for  subjecting  her  to  so  long  a  strain  of  expectation 
and  suspense.  She  was  so  glad,  poor  child !  to  discern 
even  the  outline  of  a  reasonable  solution  of  the  mystery 
that  had  so  oppressed  her  !  And,  for  the  rest,  was  he  not 
coming  soon,  to  make  everything  smooth  and  plain  ?  Might 


SMOOTHER  THAN  BUTTER.  311 

he  not  be  here  in  a  few  days, — a  week, — a  fortnight, — at 
farthest  ?  Or,  suppose  it  should  be  a  month  : — well,  no 
need  for  her  heart  to  sink  thus, — could  a  month  ever  seem 
long  again,  in  comparison  with  that  which  was  just  past? 

Perhaps  it  may  be  well  to  offset  the  foregoing  scene 
with  one  or  two  veritable  paragraphs  from  Bergan's  let 
ter  : — 

"The  crisis  of  the  fever,  Doctor  Trubie  thinks,  was 
passed  a  week  ago.  But  my  mother  does  not  rally,  in  the 
least.  We  just  succeed  in  keeping  her  alive — if  anything 
so  like  death  can  be  called  life — by  the  means  which  you 
suggested.  If  she  does  live,  we  shall  owe  it,  under  God,  to 
you.  The  great  obstacle  to  her  recovery,  now,  is  the  ulcer- 
ation  mentioned  above ;  Doctor  Trubie  warns  us  that  it 
may  terminate  fatally,  any  day.  If  you  have  any  further 
suggestions  to  offer,  I  need  not  say  how  gratefully  we  shall 
accept  them. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  they  are  all  well  at  Oakstcad  ?  I 
wrote  some  time  ago,  but  have  heard  nothing." 

The  second  of  these  paragraphs,  Doctor  lleray  had  dis 
missed  with  a  single  reading  and  a  sinister  smile  ;  but,  over 
the  first,  he  had  knitted  his  brows  into  their  sternest,  deep 
est  lines  of  thought, — the  look  of  a  man  hurling  all  his 
reserved  force  into  the  fight,  and  determined  to  wring  vic 
tory  from  defeat. 

"She  must  riot  die!"  he  muttered  to  himself, — "that 
would  set  Arling  free  too  soon.  The  longer  and  slower  her 
convalescence,  the  better, — but  she  must  not  ilief" 

And  the  return  mail  carried  back  to  Mrs.  Arling's  bed 
side — where  the  battle  seemed  weilmgh  over — the  strong 
reinforcements  of  Doctor  Remy's  science  and  experience,  to 
carry  on  the  fight. 

From  all  of  which,  it  will  easily  be  seen  that  Cariee's 
days  of  suspense  Averc  not  yet  over.  Doctor  Iveiny  had 
artfully  lifted  her  a  little  way  into  the  sunshine,  first,  as  a 


312  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

means  of  commending  himself  to  her  favor,  and  next,  in 
order  that  her  lapse  into  the  shadow  should  be  the  more 
complete. 

In  the  first  of  these  objects,  he  was  measurably  success 
ful.  Carice  no  longer  shunned  him.  He  was  certain  to  see 
her,  soon  or  late,  whenever  he  came  to  Oakstead.  With 
the  current  of  feeling  setting  so  strongly  against  Bergan, 
in  every  other  quarter,  she  could  not  afford  to  lose  any 
kindly  mention  of  him,  in  this  one.  Though  she  still  sat  a 
little  apart,  it  was  plain  that  she  lost  no  word  of  his  con 
versation.  Her  face,  as  she  listened,  had  the  same  look  of 
patient  interest,  with  which  a  solitary  prisoner  might  watch 
for  the  flight  of  a  bird  across  the  small  square  of  blue  sky 
which  is  his  only  prospect. 

Her  parents  noticed  the  change,  and  rejoiced  in  it,  inas 
much  as  they  did  not  suspect  its  cause.  For  it  must  be 
confessed  that  Doctor  Remy  acquitted  himself  marvellously 
well  of  the  delicate  task  of  mentioning  Bergan  in  terms  at 
once  pleasant  to  the  daughter's  ears,  and  void  of  offence  to 
those  of  the  parents.  He  understood  perfectly  the  art  of 
constructing  two-sided  sentences,  which  gave  Carice  the 
impression  that  he  was  the  young  man's  stanch,  if  unde 
monstrative,  friend,  at  the  same  time  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bergan  found  in  them  abundant  confirmation  of  their  preju 
dices. 

Of  course,  neither  party  discussed  these  impressions 
with  the  other.  Carice,  feeling  the  uselessness  of  the  task, 
had  long  since  ceased  to  defend  Bergan  ;  her  parents,  be 
lieving  that  his  silence  was  operating  more  powerfully 
against  him  than  any  arguments  of  theirs  could  do,  had 
ceased  to  attack  him.  Nor  will  it  seem  any  paradox  to  say 
that,  while  they  were  unspeakably  glad  of  his  omission  to 
write,  it  was,  on  the  whole,  his  worst  fault,  in  their  eyes. 
They  resented  the  slight  to  their  daughter  none  the  less, 
because  it  hastened  the  end  which  they  ardently  desired. 
To  have  sought  her  love  was  bad  enough,  but  to  have  flung 


SMOOTHER  THAN  BUTTER.  313 

it  aside  so  quickly,  as  a  thing  of  no  value,  was  a  thousand 
times  worse.  Godfrey  Bergan  gnashed  his  teeth,  whenever 
he  thought  of  it,  Avith  an  indignation  for  which  he  had  no 
words. 

One  day,  Doctor  Remy,  to  his  great  gratification,  found 
Carice  alone  in  the  library ;  and  at  once  seized  upon  the  op 
portunity  to  speak  of  Bergan,  in  kinder  and  fuller  strain  than 
he  had  ever  yet  ventured  to  do, — though  not  in  a  way  to 
suggest  that  he  was  aware  of  any  special  bond  between  his 
listener  and  his  subject.  He  described  his  first  meeting 
with  the  young  man,  and  its  immediate  results  ;  he  sketched 
various  pleasant  scenes  and  incidents  that  had  come  to  pass 
under  Mrs.  Lyte's  kindly  roof ;  and  he  dwelt  with  hearty 
admiration  upon  Bergan's  oratorical  and  intellectual  gifts. 
Carice  listened  like  one  entranced.  Her  joy  was  too  per 
fect  to  admit  of  any  alloy,  even  when  Doctor  Remy  went  on 
to  speak  of  Bergan  as  a  young  man  whose  character  was  still 
in  process  of  formation,  whose  talents  were,  as  yet,  far  in 
advance  of  his  judgment,  and  whose  kindly  impulses  often 
led  him  into  error.  Yet  these  few  words,  of  all  that  had 
ever  been  spoken  disparagingly  of  Bergan,  in  her  hearing, 
were  the  only  ones  that  had  yet  effected  any  lodgment  in 
her  mind.  So  artfully  thrown  in,  among  much  that  was 
friendly  and  encomiastic,  as  to  be  scarcely  noticed  at  the 
moment,  the  time  came  when  these  words  shot  up,  in 
Carice's  memory,  into  manifold  thorn-branches  of  sug 
gestion. 

At  present,  however,  she  was  inexpressibly  cheered  by 
this  hour's  talk  on  the  subject  that  lay  nearest  her  heart. 
She  greeted  her  parents,  upon  their  return,  with  a  face  so 
much  more  like  that  which  had  once  been  the  sunshine  of 
their  hearts,  that  they  exchanged  looks  of  surprise  and 
delight.  They  were  looks  of  questioning  too.  Was  this 
pleasant  change  owing  to  Doctor  Remy's  influence  ?  Was 
he  beo-innino-  to  think  of  Carice,  in  lover's  wise?  Was  she 

O  O 

be^innincr  to  turn  unconsciously  from  the  love  that  had 

*^  O  •* 

14 


314  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

failed  her,  to  the  calm  and  mature  affection  that  was  cer 
tain  to  stand  by  her  ?  Then,  by  all  means,  let  the  matter 
so  arrange  itself.  Though  Doctor  Remy  was  not  quite  the 
man  whom  they  would  have  chosen  for  Carice,  lie  was  infi 
nitely  better  and  safer  than  their  nephew.  His  reputation 
was  fair,  his  talents  undeniable  ;  he  was  certain  to  win 
eminence  in  his  profession  ;  and  possibly,  fame  beyond  it, 
as  a  man  of  science.  If  he  had  seemed  a  little  cold  and 
hard,  hitherto,  love  would  soften  him.  Who  could  be  oth 
erwise  than  soft  to  Carice ! 

And  so,  Doctor  Remy  came  and  went,  and  unlimited  op 
portunities  were  given  him  to  talk  to  Carice, — of  Bergan,  or 
of  anything  else, — of  which  he  failed  not  to  make  artful  use, 
with  reference  both  to  the  present  and  the  future.  In  due 
time,  she  came  to  look  upon  him  somewhat  as  Astra  had 
once  done, — as  a  man  more  wise  and  calm  than  tender, 
more  just  than  genial,  but  a  man  to  be  greatly  esteemed 
and  trusted,  nevertheless ;  and,  certainly  a  true,  if  not  an 
enthusiastic,  friend  of  Bergan.  Yet  she  never  thought  of 
him,  strange  to  say,  as  a  friend  to  herself.  Her  instincts 
were  far  too  fine  and  clear  for  that.  If  ever,  fora  moment, 
she  felt  inclined  to  turn  to  him  for  sympathy,  she  immedi 
ately  shrank  back  from  him,  as  powerless  to  give  her  what 
she  sought.  It  was  precisely  the  same  feeling — though  she 
did  not  recognize  it  as  such — with  which  she  would  have 
turned  away  from  an  image  in  a  mirror,  which,  during  a 
single  illusive  moment  of  twilight,  she  had  mistaken  for  a 
living  form. 

And  the  days  came  and  went,  and  another  month  drew 
niarh  its  close. 


A  WICKED  DEVICE. 

was  strolling  languidly  along  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  the  heaviness  of  her  heart  easily  discoverable 
in  her  absent  face  and  languid  step.  Her  eyes  rested 
on  the  same  stream,  her  ears  were  filled  with  the  murmur 
of  the  same  leaves,  which  had  witnessed  her  parting  with 
Bergan,  nearly  two  months  before,  yet  neither  made  any 
distinct  impression  on  her  mind ;  she  saw  and  heard  but  the 
flow  and  murmur  of  her  own  troubled  thoughts.  She  had 
noticed  a  singular  change  of  tone  in  Doctor  -Remy,  of  late, 
with  respect  to  Bergan.  He  no  longer  made  the  young 
man  the  subject  of  free  and  frank  conversation  ;  if  obliged 
to  mention  him  at  all,  he  did  it  with  a  certain  reserve  and 
caution,  an  air  of  picking  and  choosing  his  phrases,  which 
at  first  puzzled,  and  was  now  beginning  to  alarm,  the  poor 
girl,  already  worn  and  nervous  with  the  long  sickness  of 
hope  deferred. 

Pier  fears,  however,  took  a  different  direction  from  what 
Doctor  Remy  had  anticipated.  He  had  intended  his  alteration 
of  manner  to  suggest  the  grave,  stern  reserve  of  a  man,  who, 
though  he  had  himself  lost  confidence  in  his  friend,  is  still 
honorably  reluctant  to  injure  him  in  the  estimation  of 
another.  But  from  any  such  suggestion,  Carice's  mind  was 
shielded  by  her  loyal  faith  in  her  lover,  as  by  an  armor  of 
proof.  Dr.  Remy's  change  of  manner  only  served  to 
strengthen  her  growing  conviction  that  Bergan's  failure 
either  to  write,  or  to  appear  in  person,  could  be  caused  by 
nothing  short  of  some  great  and  unexpected  calamity.  As 
her  eyes  followed  a  swift  cloud-shadow  from  object  to 


316  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

object  of  the  summer  landscape,  so  her  mind  followed  the 
dark  shado  of  her  fears  from  point  to  point  of  possible  ill. 
Perhaps  the  fever,  quitting  his  mother,  had  fastened  upon 
Bergan  himself  ;  perhaps  he  was  ill,  suffering,  unconscious, 
dying,  even,  or — the  thought  shook  her  like  a  sudden  blow 
— dead  !  Gasping  for  breath,  she  leaned  against  a  friendly 
tree,  and  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  agonizing 
vision,  which,  nevertheless,  rose  but  the  more  vividly 
before  her.  Quickly  opening  them  again,  she  saw  Doc 
tor  Remy  coming  toward  her  from  the  direction  of  the 
cottage.  He  had  espied  her  from  the  piazza,  as  he  was 
taking  his  leave,  after  having  spent  a  half-hour  with  her 
mother. 

She  was  glad  to  see  him.  He  could  set  her  free  from  the 
intolerable  chafing  of  suspense,  though  it  were  but  to  hand 
her  over  to  the  chill  bondage  of  despair.  He  would  doubt 
less  have  done.so,  ere  this,  but  for  some  request  or  warning 
of  her  parents  to  the  contrary.  How  far  this  might  have 
let  him  into  the  secret  of  her  relations  with  Bergan,  she 
knew  not, — neither  did  she  care  much,  just  now  ;  how  far 
it  might  avail  to  close  his  lips  was  a  much  more  important 
consideration, — still  she  believed  that  she  could  gather 
something  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  even  though  he 
should  think  it  right  to  evade  her  questions. 

She  seized  upon  the  first  opportunity,  therefore,  to  look 
him  steadily  in  the  face,  though  her  own  flushed  a  little,  as 
she  did  so ;  and  to  ask,  quietly, — "  Have  you  heard  any 
thing  from  my  cousin  Bergan  lately  ?  " 

Doctor  Remy's  face  \inderwcnt  a  quick  change  of  ex 
pression,  none  the  less  effective  that  it  was  obedient  to  his 
will.  "  Yes,"  replied  he,  sombrely,  "  I  had  a  letter  from 
him  two  or  three  days  ago." 

Carice  could  scarcely  restrain  a  cry  of  joy;  it  was 
such  a  relief  to  know  that  Bergan  was  alive,  and  able  to 
write.  But  her  immediate  perception  that  something  was 
kept  back,  saved  her  self-possession. 


A    WICKED   DEVICE.  317 

"  And  my  aunt,"  she  went  on,  as  soon  as  she  could  com 
mand  her  voice,  "  is  she  quite  recovered  ?  " 

"  Yes, — that  is,  I  inferred  so." 

Carioe  looked  a  little  surprised.  It  would  seem  that 
Bergan's  letter  had  made  no  mention  of  his  mother.  "  Has 
the  fever  attacked  any  of  the  others  ?  "  she  continued. 

"  None." 

"  And  Bergan  is  quite  well  himself  ?  " 

"  He  says  nothing  to  the  contrary." 

Satisfactory  as  were  these  replies,  in  substance,  there 
was  a  degree  of  dryness  and  brevity  about  them  whicli  was 
far  otherwise.  Unwilling  to  quit  the  subject  thus,  Cai'icc 
ventured  another  query  : — "  Then,  I  suppose  he  may  be  ex 
pected  back  very  soon  ?  " 

Doctor  Remy  looked  grave  even  to  sternness.  "  No,  I 
think  not." 

Cai'ice's  heart  sank.  "  Did  he  not  say  when  he  should 
come  ?  "  asked  she,  anxiously. 

Doctor  Remy  seemed  to  become  suddenly  aware  that 
she  really  had  something  more  than  a  conventional  interest 
in  the  subject,  and  to  be  willing  to  gratify  it,  to  the  best  of 
his  ability. 

"  I  forget  exactly  what  he  said  about  it,"  replied  he, 
"  but  I  think  I  have  his  letter  in  my  pocket-book."  He 
drev,-  forth  a  closely  written  sheet,  and  glanced  rapidly 
over  it,  but  seemed  not  to  find  what  he  sought.  Applying 
again  to  the  envelope,  he  produced  a  separate  bit  of  paper. 
"  Ah,  yes,  here  we  have  it,  in  this  slip  of  a  postscript,"  he 
went  on, — "  '  In  order  to  ' — urn — um — '  I  think  I  shall  post 
pone  my  return  until  after  Christmas.'  That  is  all." 

Carice  stood  as  in  a  dream.  Bergan  well !  Bergan 
silent  only  to  her!  Bergan  not  coming  back  for  three 
months  yet ! — her  mind  utterly  refused  to  receive  three 
such  incongruous  ideas.  There  must  be  some  miserable 
mistake, — but  where  ?  She  put  her  hand  to  her  brow  with 
a  piteous  gesture  of  perplexity  and  bewilderment. 


318  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COEDS. 

Doctor  Remy,  meanwhile,  failed  not  to  observe  the 
effect  of  his  words,  though  apparently  thinking  only  of 
refolding  and  rearranging  his  papers.  It  was  precisely 
what  he  had  expected ;  and,  feeling  quite  secure,  for  the 
moment,  from  Carice's  observation,  he  took  occasion,  as  he 
returned  Bergan's  letter  to  his  pocket-book,  to  let  the  post 
script  drop  to  the  ground,  taking  care  to  conceal  it  with 
his  foot  during  the  remainder  of  his  stay,  which  he  wisely 
made  short. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you  ?  "  he  asked,  gra 
ciously,  as  he  put  up  his  pocket-book. 

Carice  gave  a  slight  start,  and  turned  toward  him,  with 
an  inquiring  look.  She  had  heard,  but  she  had  not  under 
stood.  He  repeated  his  question. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  replied  Carice,  letting  her  eyes  go 
back  to  the  far,  dark  line  of  the  pine  forest. 

"  Then  I  must  leave  you.  I  only  stopped  to  say  good 
morning  and  good-bye.  I  had  already  spent  my  few  mo 
ments  of  leisure  with  Mrs.  Bergan." 

He  raised  his  hat  courteously,  and  was  gone. 

Carice  remained,  trying  her  best  to  reduce  the  confusion 
of  her  mind  to  order,  and,  especially,  to  discover  some  clue 
to  the  mystery  of  Bergan's  doings  and  intentions.  She 
gave  up  the  difficult  task,  at  last,  with  a  weary  little  shake 
of  the  head,  and  a  smile  of  pity  at  her  own  helplessness. 

"  It  is  too  deep  for  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  but  Ber 
gan  will  be  sure  to  explain  it  all.  I  must  just  go  on  trust 
ing  till  he  comes,  or  writes.  He  shall  never  be  able  to 
say  that  my  faith  in  him  was  conquered  by  the  first  diffi 
culty  ! " 

There  was  something  quieting  and  strengthening  in  the 
mere  resolve.  Trust  has  its  own  special  delight, — a  far 
subtler  and  sweeter  thing  than  any  satisfaction  of  the 
understanding.  Cancels  face  was  almost  bright,  as  she 
turned  to  go  home. 

A  folded  paper  lay  directly  in  her  path.     Mechanically 


A    WICKED    DEVICE.  319 

she  picked  it  up  ;  mechanically  she  read  it  almost  through, 
before  her  mind,  busy  with  other  thoughts,  began,  even 
vaguely,  to  grasp  its  meaning. 

It  ran  thus  : — 

"P.  S.  I  cannot  understand  how  my  foolish  engage 
ment  to  Astra  Lyte  should  have  leaked  out.  With  all 
due  inspect  for  your  opinion,  I  cannot  think  of  fulfilling  it ; 
indeed,  I  wrote  to  break  it  off  immediately  after  coming 
home.  I  should  never  have  entered  into  it,  but  for  a  mis 
taken  notion  that  it  would  advance  my  interests  in  a  cer 
tain  quarter.  Finding  that  it  was  likely  to  do  just  the 
opposite,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  take  the  shortest 
cut  out  of  the  scrape.  Never  fear  for  Astra,  she  does  not 
belong  to  the  Ophelia  order  of  women,  she  has  pride  and 
pluck  enough  to  carry  her  through  a  worse  disappointment ; 
besides,  hearts  are  never  broken  except  in  novels  and  plays. 
I  am  much  obliged  to  her  for  leaving  Berganton,  the  affair 
will  blow  over  the  sooner.  In  order  to  give  it  time  to  do 
so,  I  think  I  shall  postpone  my  return  until  after  Christ 
mas.  "  Yours,  B.  A." 

Twice  did  Carice  read  the  paper's  contents  through, 
before  she  began  to  understand  what  it  was,  arid  whence  it 
came.  She  had  seen  Bergan's  handwriting  a  few  times, 
in  notes  addressed  to  her  mother ;  and  she  remembered 
enough  of  its  peculiarities  to  recognize  them  in  the  lines 
before  her,  as  soon  as  her  mind  was  able  to  grasp  the  fact 
that,  in  this  heartless  production,  she  beheld  the  postscript 
which  she  had  seen  in  Doctor  Remy's  hand,  and  which  lie 
had  doubtless  dropped  accidentally,  while  replacing  his 
papers  in  his  pocket-book.  That  it  should  have  been  de 
liberately  forged,  and  designedly  put  in  her  way — a  sort 
of  moral  torpedo,  loaded  with  mischief — was  a  deptli  of 
wickedness,  of  which,  in  her  innocence,  she  could  never 
have  conceived.  She  could  scarcely  make  herself  compre 
hend  the  evil  tenor  of  the  words  before  her  eyes.  She 


320  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKUS 

read  them  over  again,  with  a  feeling  that  either  their  form 
or  their  purport  must  change,  if  she  only  studied  them 
carefully  enough ;  it  was  impossible  that  she  had  read  them 
aright. 

No,  they  would  not  alter.  Her  efforts  only  served  to 
brand  them  more  deeply  on  her  mind.  She  looked  up,  at 
last,  with  a  kind  of  wonder  that  the  earth  was  still  linn 
under  her  feet,  and  the  sky's  arch  entire  above  her  head. 
It  would  have  seemed  more  in  keeping  to  have  beheld  the 
universe  crashing  backward  into  chaos. 

Not  that  she  suffered  very  keenly  yet.  She  was  too 
much  stunned  to  realize  the  extent  of  her  wounds  and 
bruises.  She  picked  herself  up,  as  it  were,  after  the  fall 
and  the  shock,  and  walked  mechanically  homeward.  Her 
strength  did  not  give  way  until  she  found  herself  in  her 
room,  shutting  her  door  behind  her,  and  felt  what  a 
different  being  had  gone  out  of  it  only  a  little  while 
before. 

An  hour  after,  Mrs.  Bergan  found  her  lying  on  her  bed, 
white  and  still,  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  living,  suffering 
girl. 

"  Carice ! "  she  cried,  appalled,  but  not  without  an 
intuitive  perception  of  the  truth, — -"  Carice,  my  child ! 
what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — don't  ask  me,"  replied  Carice,  turning 
her  face  to  the  wall. 

Mrs.  Bergan  burst  into  tears,  and  stole  softly  away. 
Here  was  a  grief  in  which  even  she  could  only  intermeddle 
as  a  stranger.  She  could  simply  commend  her  child  to 
tenderer,  wiser  hands  than  hers. 

A  day  or  two  went  by,  and  Carice  was  down-stairs 
again,  white;  still,  patient ;  filling  her  old  place,  and  doing 
her  old  tasks,  with  a  sad  composure  that  was  more  affect 
ing  than  any  abandonment  of  sorrow.  Her  woe  seemed  to 
take  the  form  of  torpor,  rather  than  of  anguish.  It  was 
that  chill  and  heavy  misery,  that  dismal  realization  of  the 


A   WICKED   DEVICE.  321 

actual  presence  and  power  of  evil  in  the  world,  which 
never  comes  to  us  except  through  the  sin  of  some  cherished, 
trusted  friend ;  standing  hitherto  as  the  representative  of 
all  that  is  good  and  true,  the  earthly  type  of  the  Divine 
perfection.  Falling,  he  falls  not  alone,  but  drags  down 
with  him  the  supports  of  every  earthly  confidence,  and  even 
makes  the  foundation  of  our  heavenly  faith  to  tremble. 
Such  grief  is  dumb  and  tearless ;  it  coils  itself  round  the 
heart  in  cold,  serpent-like  folds,  chilling  the  blood,  and 
oppressing  the  breath;  but  it  makes  no  single,  special 
wound,  to  call  forth  cries  and  sobs  of  pain. 

Meanwhile,  the  yellow  fever,  as  foreseen  long  ago  by 
Doctor  Remy,  made  its  silent  entry  into  Berganton.  One 
day  a  single  case  was  reported  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town ; 
another  week,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  threshold  which  it 
had  not  crossed,  either  to  strike  or  slay.  The  town  put  on 
sackcloth  and  ashes;  business  was  suspended,  except  the 
business  of  nursing  the  sick  and  burying  the  dead;  the 
streets  were  deserted,  except  by  hearses  and  doctors.  Or, 
it  would  be  truer  to  say,  a  doctor ;  for  Doctor  Gerrish, 
being  unacclimated,  was  one  of  the  earliest  patients;  and 
Doctor  Harris,  being  old  and  infirm,  quickly  sank  exhausted ; 
so  Doctor  Remy  was  soon  left  to  face  the  pestilence  alone, 
and  multiply  himself  as  best  he  could,  to  meet  the  demands 
of  a  whole  people. 

Let  us  do  him  ample  justice.  All  that  an  iron  frame,  a 
steady  courage,  admirable  executive  ability,  profound 
medical  skill,  and  deep  scientific  interest,  could  prompt  or 
do,  he  did.  He  organized  and  instructed  a  corps  of  nurses, 
and  made  them  do  effective  work;  he  scattered  printed 
suggestions  and  directions  broadcast  over  the  town,  for 
the  behoof  of  sick  and  well;  he  was  himself  constantly  in 
the  thickest  of  the  fight,  animating  the  workers,  cheering 
the  sick,  wellnigh  raising  the  dead, — doing  everything  but 
comfort  the  mourners,  for  that  he  had  neither  time  nor 
talent.  The  town  rang  with  praises  of  his  energy  and 
14* 


322  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

skill ;  his  presence  had  brought  back  hope  to  many  a  house 
whence  it  seemed  to  have  flown  forever,  joy  into  many  a 
heart  that  had  only  made  itself  ready  for  sorrow.  Even 
Carice,  as  her  private  grief  half-sank,  for  the  time,  under 
the  great  wave  of  public  calamity,  was  moved  to  a  degree 
of  respect  and  admiration  for  the  doctor,  of  which,  two  or 
three  weeks  before,  she  could  not  have  believed  herself 
capable.  There  was  still  a  hero,  and  room  for  heroism,  in 
the  world ! 

By  and  by,  Mr.  Bergan  fell  ill,  not  of  the  fever,  but  of 
one  of  the  sympathetic  diseases,  which  often  go  hand  in 
hand  with  it.  There  were  a  few  days  of  intense  anxiety, 
during  which  the  wife  and  daughter  lived,  as  it  were,  on 
the  words  of  Doctor  Remy's  mouth,  and  the  look  of  his 
eyes.  After  these  came  slow  weeks  of  convalescence,  of 
exacting  feebleness  and  irritable  complaint. 

It  was  during  these  that  Doctor  Remy  spoke. 

Is  it  necessary  to  describe  the  conflict,  or  designate  the 
result  ?  On  the  one  side  were  parental  wisdom,  love,  and 
authority,  with  the  strong  sanction  of  recent  danger  and 
present  feebleness;  on  the  other,  filial  respect,  affection, 
and  obedience,  and  a  great  self-distrust.  For  Carice  remem 
bered  that  she  had  taken  her  own  way  before,  and  whither 
it  had  led ;  now,  ought  she  not  to  submit  to  the  guidance 
ordained  of  God  ? 

October  found  her  bound  fast  by  a  promise,  held  irre 
vocably  to  a  day.  The  outward  conflict  was  over  ;  but  the 
inward  struggle,  she  found,  was  scarce  begun !  Under 
that,  she  paled  and  wasted  ;  sleep  and  appetite  forsook  her ; 
her  eyes  grew  to  have  the  pathetic,  pleading  look  of  a 
dumb  animal  taken  in  a  net.  Finally,  worn-out  nature 
took  refuge  in  apathy  that  nothing  seemed  to  disturb. 


XL 

A   CLUE. 

A  CHILL  November  day  was  drawing  near  its  close. 
With  the  evening  dusk  snowflakcs  filled  the  air,  and 
began  to  whiten  the  swells  and  slopes  of  the  Arling 
farm,  and  lay  the  foundation  of  future  drifts  beside  the  door 
step  and  under  the  eaves  of  the  Arling  homestead.  This 
structure  had  begun  life  as  a  log  cabin,  but  had  grown,  by 
the  simple  and  natural  process  of  adding  on  a  room  or  a 
wing,  as  fast  as  it  was  required  and  could  be  afforded,  into 
a  lai'ge,  and  somewhat  picturesque,  cluster  of  roofs  and 
gables  ;  beneath  which  there  might  easily  be  not  only  room 
for  the  fullest,  heartiest  flow  of  domestic  and  social  life, 
but  also  means  and  influences  to  a  considerable  degree  of 
refinement  and  culture. 

Toward  it,  a  stout,  broad-shouldered  personage  was 
making  his  way,  through  the  dusk  and  the  snow,  with  a 
cheery  face  and  an  energetic  tread,  that  plainly  minded 
neither.  Tramp,  tramp,  went  the  brisk  footfalls  up  the 
gravel  walk,  the  bright  bi-ass  knocker  was  made  to  send  a 
note  of  warning  through  the  house,  and  the  wayfarer  ad 
mitted  himself  into  a  lighted  hall,  through  which  he  strode 
to  the  open  door  of  the  sitting-room  at  the  farther  end. 

A  pleasant  family  picture  was  before  him.  Bergan  Ar 
ling,  on  one  side  of  the  crimson-covered  centre-table,  looked 
up,  smiling,  from  the  book  out  of  which  he  had  been 
reading  aloud.  Two  of  his  sisters  sat  near  him,  busy  with 
crotchet  needles  and  bright  worsteds.  Still  another  was 
drawing  at  a  side-table ;  and  over  her,  giving  her  the  bene 
fit  of  his  criticism,  leaned  her  brother  Hubert,  scarce  two 


324  HOLDER    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

years  younger  than  Bergan,  and  so  strikingly  like  him,  that 
one  was  often  taken  for  the  other,  outside  the  family  circle. 
At  one  side  of  the  fire-place  sat  the  master  of  the  house, 
a  tall,  noble-looking  man,  with  eye  undimmed  and  hair 
unfrosted  by  the  snows  of  over  sixty  years.  Opposite  him 
was  the  home's  true  light  and  centre,  the  house-mother, 
'•'he  reclined  in  a  large,  low  easy  chair,  the  paleness  on  her 
face  half  concealed  by  the  glow  of  the  blazing  fire,  and  her 
eyes  shining  with  that  tender  joy  and  peace  which  conva 
lescents  sometimes  bring  back  from  the  edge  of  the  grave, — 
a  reflection,  perhaps,  from  the  paradise  that  was  already 
opening  before  the  gaze  of  the  half-freed  spirit. 

Doctor  Trubie  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  to 
master  the  details  of  the  scene.  He  has  changed  but  little 
since  he  was  introduced  to  the  reader,  fourteen  years  ago, 
in  his  medical  Alma  Mater.  His  figure  has  gained  in 
breadth  and  strength,  and  his  features  in  character,  but  it 
is  the  same  frank,  genial  face,  and  the  same  good-humored 
smile.  No  one  that  knew  him  then,  could  fail  to  recognize 
him  now. 

In  a  moment,  he  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Arling,  and  has 
tened  towai-d  her  with  outstretched  hand.  "  I  don't  know 
whether  to  congratulate  or  to  scold  you,"  he  began,  smiling, 
yet  shaking  his  head  with  mild  disapproval. 

Hubert  Arling  came  forward  to  Bergan's  side.  "  I  can 
settle  the  question  for  you,"  said  he.  "  Congratulate  her, 
and  scold  us.  We  brought  her  down,  chair  and  all ;  she 
did  not  touch  foot  to  the  floor  in  the  transit." 

"  Then  I  will  save  my  scolding  until  it  is  needed.  It 
seems  little  less  than  miraculous  to  see  you  here,"  he  went 
on,  turning  to  Mrs.  Arling,  "  when  I  think  how  things 
seemed  to  be  going,  a  few  weeks  ago.  It  has  been  a  hard 
pull,  and  a  long  one." 

"  And  a  strong  one,  and  a  pull  altogethei*,"  added  Hu 
bert  Arling,  merrily,  by  way  of  arresting  the  tears  that  he 
saw  starting  into  his  sisters'  eyes. 


A   OLUE.  325 

"  The  strong  pull,"  remarked  Doctor  Trubie,  "  came 
from  my  medical  brother,  down  South." 

"  You  underrate  yourself,"  replied  Mr.  Arling.  "  Of 
what  avail  would  Doctor  liemy's  suggestions  have  been, 
without  your  indefatigable  vigilance,  and  your  professional 
skill  and  knowledge  to  carry  them  out?" 

"  That  is  to  say,"  returned  Doctor  Trubie,  "  that  a  good 
coramander-in-chief  can  do  nothing  without  good  generals. 
At  all  events,  Doctor  Itemy  is  a  wonderfully  talented  fel 
low.  He  seems  to  keep  not  only  abreast  of  medical  science, 
but  in  advance  of  it.  That  very  suggestion  of  his,  which 
proved  most  valuable  to  us,  was  mentioned  in  my  last 
medical  review,  as  the  latest  discovery  at  Paris.  There  is 
something  about  his  bold,  yet  scientific  mode  of  reasoning 
which  reminds  me  strangely  of  an  old  fellow-student.  But 
Doctor  Rcmy,  I  hope,  is  a  better  fellow  than  he  was.  By 
the  way,"  he  added,  turning  to  Bergan,  "  I  came  near  for 
getting  that  I  have  brought  you  a  letter  from  him,  as  I 
judge  from  the  handwriting." 

Bergan  tore  open  the  letter,  and  with  an  apologetic 
bow  to  the  company,  began  eagerly  to  read  it.  Doctor 
Trubie  seated  himself  by  the  table,  picked  up  the  rejected 
envelope,  and  gave  it  a  critical  examination. 

"  That's  Avhat  I  call  a  good  hand,"  said  he,  "  a  round, 
clear,  energetic  hand,  that  neither  tries  your  eyesight,  nor 
rouses  your  distrust.  There  is  no  crookedness  nor  mean 
ness  in  it ;  yet  there  is  plenty  of  character ;  one  can  sec,  at 
a  glance,  that  the  writer  is  bold  and  sagacious  as  well  as 
profound,  a  man  of  action  as  well  as  a  man  of  science." 

Bergan  had  finished  the  letter,  which  was  short ;  and  he 
now  looked  up  with  a  much  amused  face.  "  I  ought  to  tell 
you,"  said  he,  "  that  Doctor  Remy  possesses  the  rare  ac 
complishment  of  being  able  to  write  with  either  hand ;  lie 
uses  the  right  or  the  left,  at  pleasure.  But  the  two  hand 
writings  are  entirely  distinct.  That  address  was  written 
with  his  left  hand,  and  so,  I  remember,  were  the  sugges- 


320  HOLDEN    WITH   TITE   CORDS. 

tions  and  prescriptions  that  I  handed  over  to  you.  But 
this  letter  was  written  with  his  right  hand  ;  see  what  you 
can  make  of  it,"  and  Bergan  pushed  the  open  sheet  across 
the  table. 

The  change  in  Doctor  Trubie's  face  was  startling. 
"  This  !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  trembling  with  excitement, 
"  who  did  you  say  wrote  this  ?  " 

"  Doctor  Rcmy,  the  same  man  who  wrote  that  ad 
dress." 

Doctor  Trubie  glanced  back  at  the  letter,  and  his  eyes 
lit  with  a  strange,  stern  joy.  "  At  last !  "  he  muttered 
through  his  set  teeth. 

Mrs.  Arling  leaned  forward,  and  her  face  grew  pale. 
"  What  is  it,  doctor  ?  "  she  asked,  trembling.  "  What  is 
the  matter  ?  " 

Doctor  Trubie  glanced  at  her  excited  face,  and  saw 
what  mischief  he  was  doing.  "  Nothing,"  he  hastened  to 
answer,  "  nothing,  only  an  old  sore  pressed  on  suddenly. 
This  handwriting  reminds  me  of  one  that — I  never  expected 
to  see  again." 

He  gave  the  letter  a  long,  moody  look,  then  refolded 
it,  and  handed  it  back  to  Bergan. 

Mrs.  Arling  looked  anxiously  at  her  son.  "  Does  Doctor 
Remy  give  you  any  special  news  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  much.  Uncle  Godfrey  is  better,  and  the  fever  is 
over.  Business  is  still  dull." 

"  Then  you  will  not  need  to  hurry  back  ?  " 

Bergan  knelt  by  his  mother's  side.  "  My  dear  mother," 
he  whispered,  ''  you  know  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  my  busi 
ness  that  I  am  anxious  to  return,  as  soon  as  I  may.  I  must 
see  Caricc,  and  satisfy  myself  that  nothing  is  amiss." 

Mrs.  Arling  smiled,  yet  she  sighed,  too.  "  Ah,  yes,  I 
remember,"  said  she,  "  and  you  are  quite  right." 

Doctor  Trubie  rose,  and  came  to  the  other  side  of  Mrs. 
Arling's  chair.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  that  I  am  not  wanted 
here  any  longer,"  he  began,  pleasantly ; — 


A   CLUE.  327 

"  But  you  arc  wanted,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Arling  ;  "  you 
are  always  wanted,  as  a  friend." 

"  Thank  you  ;  but  I  am  wanted  elsewhere  as  a  physi 
cian  ;  so  I  must  take  my  leave,  for  the  present." 

He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Arling,  and  gave  Bergan  a 
meaning  glance,  as  he  did  so.  The  young  man  rose.  "  I 
will  walk  a,  little  way  with  you,  if  you  like,"  said  he.  "  I 
have  a  boyish  delight  in  the  first  snow,  and  I  did  not  see 
any  last  winter,  you  remember." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  hardly  outside  the  gate,  be 
fore  Doctor  Trubie  asked  ; — "  What  do  you  know  of  this 
Doctor  Remy's  antecedents  ?  " 

Bergan  narrated  the  facts  which  he  had  gathered,  from 
time  to  time,  from  Doctor  Remy's  conversation. 

"  So,  he  would  have  us  believe,"  said  Doctor  Trubie,  con 
temptuously,  "  that  he  transformed  himself  from  a  poor 
lawyer  into  a  scientific  physician,  in  a  year  and  a  half,  by 
the  help  of  a  friendly  doctor,  and  a  course  of  lectures ! 
There  is  falsehood  on  the  face  of  it." 

"  He  had  a  genius  for  the  study,"  replied  Bergan. 

"  Aye,  I'll  warrant !  that  is  the  saving  grain  of  truth  in 
the  whole  story.  Do  you  remember  the  circumstances  of 
your  elder  brothei-'s  death  ?  " 

"  Not  very  distinctly.  I  was  so  young,  at  the  time  ; 
and  then,  you  know,  mother  could  never  bear  to  hear  any 
allusion  to  them." 

"  You  know  that  he  was  murdered  ?" 

Bergan  looked  surprised.  "  I  know  there  was  talk  of 
suicide,"  said  he,  "  but  I  thought  it  was  decided  that  he 
was  poisoned  by  mistake." 

"  He  was  murdered,"  asserted  Doctor  Trubie,  setting 
his  teeth,  "  foully  murdered  by  the  man  who  professed  to 
be  his  friend, — a  man  who  wrote  a  hand  as  much  like  this 
Doctor  Remy's  as  one  side  of  your  face  is  like  the  other.  I 
charged  him  with  it,  at  the  time,  and  I  have  always  be 
lieved  that  I  should  live  to  see  the  charge  proven."  And 


IIOLDEN    WITH   THE   COEDS. 

he  finished  by  giving  a  succinct  account  of  the  circum 
stances  attending  Alec  Arling's  death. 

Bergan  listened  attentively  and  critically,  as  became 
his  legal  training.  "I  do  not  understand  why  the  finding 
of  the  diamond  was  such  conclusive  evidence  of  guilt,"  said 
he,  when  the  doctor  paused. 

"  Because  Roath  swore,  at  the  inquest,  that  he  did  not 
touch  either  bottle  or  glass,  and  did  not  even  go  to  that 
end  of  the  table.  That  was  where  he  overreached  himself; 
without  that,  the  stone  in  the  glass  would  not  have  been 
such  a  damning  circumstance.  He  recognized  it  as  such 
himself; — else  why  did  he  fly?  " 

"  Well,  you  may  be  right  about  the  murder,"  said  Ber 
gan,  after  a  little  consideration,  "  but  I  think  you  have 
mistaken  the  man." 

"  Let  us  see,"  said  Doctor  Trubie.  "  He  is  about  my 
height?" 

"  Yes, — perhaps  a  little  taller. 

"  He  stoops  a  little  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  he  is  uncommonly  erect." 

"  He  has  dark  hair  ?  " 

"  It  may  have  been  so,  it  is  prematurely  gray." 

Doctor  Trubie  looked  a  little  discomfited.  "  Give  me  a 
sketch  of  his  character,"  said  he. 

Bergan  hesitated.  It  was  a  difficult  thing  to  do,  on  the 
instant.  His  impressions  of  Doctor  Uemy's  character  had 
varied,  as  he  remembered. 

"  On  second  thought,"  said  Doctor  Trubie,  "  I  will  give 
you  one.  All  of  him,  that  is  not  intellect,  is  ice.  In  relig 
ious  matters,  he  is  an  utter  sceptic.  Socially,  he  is  bril 
liant  ;  but  he  has  no  intimate  friends,  and  he  makes  no  con 
fidants.  Men  and  women,  to  him,  are  subjects  of  study, 
not  objects  of  affection.  He  cares  for  nothing  but  himself 
and  his  profession.  And  no  one  cares  for  him — much. 
They  may  admire,  but  they  cannot  love." 

Bergan   looked   considerably  startled.     "  Your  sketch 


A   CLUE.  329 

tallies  well  with  some  impressions  of  mine,  which  I  did  my 
best  to  rid  myself  of,"  said  he.  "  But  Doctor  Remy  has 
befriended  me,  from  the  first,  and  you  yourself  say  that  he 
has  been  largely  the  means  of  saving  my  mother's  life." 

"  He  has  had  his  own  reasons  for  both ;  Edmund  Roath 
never  did  anything  without  a  reason,  and  a  selfish  one. 
Has  he  anything  to  gain  by  keeping  you  out  of  the  way  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  that  I  can  imagine." 

"  When  do  you  return  to  Berganton  ?  " 

"  Mother  has  consented  that  I  shall  start  on  Monday,  if 
she  is  no  worse." 

"  She  will  be  much  better.  Df>  not  delay  longer  than 
that.  I  will  accompany  you  ;  I  want  to  see  this  Doctor 
Remy.  Seeing  is  believing.  But,  mind,  not  a  word  of  my 
coming,  to  him  or  any  one  else.  Now,  go  back  to  your 
mother,  or  she  will  be  alarmed.  Good  night." 

Bergan  walked  back  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  With 
out  being  fully  convinced  of  the  truth  of  Doctor  Trubie's 
suspicions,  he  was  strangely  disturbed  and  startled. 
Reaching  the  gate,  he  turned  his  face  south-eastward,  and 
gazed  across  the  white  meadows,  toward  the  dim  outline  of 
the  distant  hills.  His  thoughts  overleaped  even  that  far 
barrier,  and  took  an  air  line  to  Oakstead  and  to  Carice. 
Her  face  rose  vividly  before  him,  not,  strange  to  say,  as  he 
had  seen  it  last,  rosy  and  bright,  but  pale  and  piteous,  and 
gazing  toward  him  with  a  look  that  besought  sympathy 
and  succor,  plainer  than  any  speech.  His  eyes  grew  moist, 
his  breath  tremulous  ;  his  heart  swelled  with  passionate 
love  and  longing. 

"  I  will  beg  my  mother  to  consent  to  my  going  at  once," 
said  he  to  himself.  "  I  cannot  wait  another  day." 

The  next  afternoon,  he  was  on  his  way  to  Berganton, 
whither  Doctor  Trubie  was  shortly  to  follow  him. 


XII. 

TOO  LATE. 

IN  those  days,  there  was  a  pleasant  spice  of  uncertainty 
about  Southern  journey  ings.  Cars,  steamboats,  and 
stages  ran  in  happy  independence  of  each  other  and 
the  time-table.  The  traveller  never  knew  at  what  point  of 
juniper  swamp,  or  pine  barren,  or  cotton  plantation,  he 
would  be  set  down  to  while  away  some  hours  in  botanical 
or  ethnological  investigations,  if  his  mind  were  sufficiently 
at  ease,  or  in  chewing  the  bitter  cud  of  impatience,  if  it  were 
not.  Defective  machinery  and  lazy  officials  labored  might 
ily  together  to  miss  connections,  and  wherever  human  ineffi 
ciency  came  short,  down  swept  a  hurricane  from  the  skies, 
and  streAved  the  roads  with  prostrate  trunks  of  trees,  through 
which  the  cumbrous  stage  coach  had  literally  to  hew  its 
path. 

More  than  one  such  delay  attended  Bergan's  progress 
southward.  Under  their  teasing  friction,  the  shadowy 
anxiety  with  which  he  had  set  out,  increased  to  a  positive 
weight  of  alarm.  Reaching  Savalla  on  the  twelfth  evening, 
he  stopped  neither  for  rest  nor  refreshment,  but  looked  up 
a  horse,  flung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and  set  off  toward 
Berganton  at  a  rapid  rate.  Outside  the  city  limits,  how 
ever,  he  was  forced  to  slacken  his  pace.  The  night  was 
dark,  no  faintest  gleam  of  moon  or  star  tempered  the  black 
obscurity  of  the  tree-arched  and  swamp-bordered  road. 
Compelled  thus  to  feel  his  way,  as  it  were,  it  was  near  mid 
night  when  he  came  upon  the  outlying  fields  of  Oakstead. 
Reluctantly  he  told  himself  that  an  interview  with  Carice, 
to-night,  was  out  of  the  question  ;  she  and  all  the  house- 


TOO   LATE.  331 

hold  were  certain  to  be  fast  asleep,  it  was  doubtful  if  even 
the  faintest  outline  of  the  darkened  dwelling  would  be  dis 
cernible  through  the  murky  night.  He  had  no  choice  but 
to  ride  on  to  Berganton. 

Scarcely  had  he  reached  this  conclusion,  when  a  radiant 
window  shone  vision-like  through  the  trees  ;  a  little  farther 
on,  and  the  cottage,  though  yet  distant,  came  full  into  view 
through  an  opening  in  the  forest,  brilliantly  illuminated 
from  roof  to  foundation  as  for  a  festivity  of  no  ordinary  mag 
nitude.  Even  the  surrounding  lawn  was  lighted  up  into 
the  semblance  of  day  ;  and  in  its  remotest  corner,  a  group 
of  negroes,  dancing  to  some  strain  of  music  inaudible  to  the 
wondering  spectator,  looked  fantastic  enough  for  the  unsub 
stantial  images  of  a  dream. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  Bergan  suspected  his  jaded  senses 
of  playing  him  false,  as  a  step  preparatory  to  taking  leave 
of  him  altogether.  There  was  something  too  incongruous 
to  be  real,  between  this  gay  scene  of  festivity  and  the  pic 
ture  presented  by  Doctor  Remy's  last  letter, — a  dull,  silent 
house,  its  master  a  feeble,  exacting  convalescent,  its  mis 
tress  and  daughter  worn  out  with  anxiety  and  watching. 
An  intuition  of  some  unlooked-for  calamity  seized  him. 
Putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  dashed  over  the  mile  that  in 
tervened  between  him  and  the  cottage,  at  a  scarcely  less  fu 
rious  rate  than  that  with  which  Vic  had  borne  him  over 
the  same  road — how  well  he  remembered  it  ! — just  one 
year  ago.  He  did  not  suspect  that  he  was  now  to  taste  the 
bitterest  consequences  of  that  ride. 

In  a  very  few  moments,  he  rode  through  the  open  gates 
of  Oakstead.  Here,  he  found  the  avenue  to  the  house 
encumbered  with  teams  and  saddle-horses,  tied  to  every 
tree  and  post.  The  every-day  aspect  of  these  sleepy  ani 
mals  was  like  a  bucket  of  cold  water  to  his  excited  imagi 
nation.  Strains  of  dancing  music,  too,  came  to  his  ear, — 
flutes  and  violins,  none  too  well  played,  sent  forth  the  notes 
of  a  popular  air.  Plainly,  he  had  been  a  fool  to  connect 


332  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

the  thought  of  calamity  with  anything  so  exceedingly  com 
mon-place  as  an  evening  party.  If  Godfrey  Bergan  chose 
to  call  in  his  friends  and  neighbors  to  dance  over  his  resto 
ration  to  health,  who  should  gainsay  him  ?  Convalescents 
had  their  fancies,  and  must  be  humored. 

In  this  cooler  frame  of  mind,  it  naturally  occurred  to 
Bergan  that  he  was  in  no  fit  condition  to  face  a  festal 
throng.  His  appearance,  thus  way-worn  and  travel-stained, 
would  be  scarcely  more  timely  than  that  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner  to  the  wedding  guest.  It  would  look  as  if  he,  too, 
had  a  tale  of  horror  to  impart,  and  Caricc  might  be  unpleas 
antly  startled, — Carice,  who  little  imagined  him  so  near  to 
her !  At  the  thought,  a  strange,  indefinable  thrill  and  shiver 
passed  over  him,  hard  to  define  as  cither  pleasure  or  pain. 

After  a  moment's  consideration,  he  dismounted,  and 
walked  quietly  round  to  the  spot  where  the  negroes  still 
kept  up  their  lively  dance.  One  of  them,  Bruno  by  name, 
stood  a  little  apart,  a  smiling  spectator  of  the  merriment 
that  he  was  too  old  to  join.  It  was  easy  to  touch  him  on 
the  shoulder,  without  attracting  the  notice  of  the  rest. 
The  negro  turned,  and  instantly  recognized  Bergan;  but 
his  exclamation  of  surprise  was  cut  short  by  the  young 
man's  significant  gesture,  and  he  silently  followed  him  to  a 
spot  equi-distant  between  the  cottage  and  the  dancers. 

"  All  well,  Bruno  ?  "  was  Bergan's  first  inquiry. 

"  All  bery  well,  Massa  Arling.  You's  welcome  back, 
sah.  But  I'se  sorry  you's  too  late  for  de  weddin'." 

The  wedding, — the  word  fell  almost  meaninglessly  on 
Bergan's  ear,  so  intent  was  he  upon  satisfying  himself  that 
his  late  anxieties  had  been  groundless.  "  And  Miss  Carice," 
he  went  on,  "  is  she  quite  well,  too  ?  " 

Bruno  smiled.  "  Yes,  massa,  I  'spec  so,  tho'  she  do  look 
mighty  pale  and  peaked,  dese  yere  last  weeks.  But  dey 
mostly  look  so,  at  sich  times,  I  s'pose.  She'll  be  better 
when  de  weddin's  ober,  an'  all  de  fuss  and  flurry." 

This  second  mention  of  "  the  wedding  "  penetrated  to 


TOO   LATE.  333 

Bcrgan's  understanding,  and  awakened  a  faint  emotion  of 
surprise. 

"  The  wedding ! — whose  wedding  ?  "  he  asked. 

Bruno  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  astonishment.  "Why, 
don'  you  know,  sah?  I  thought  you'd  come  on  purpose. 
Miss  Carice's  weddin',  to  be  sure." 

It  was  Bergan's  turn  to  look  more  than  astonished,  con 
founded.  "  Miss  Carice's  wedding ! "  he  repeated,  as  doubt 
ing  the  trustworthiness  of  his  own  ears. 

"Yes,  sah,  to  Doctor  Remy,  sah.     Dey  had — " 

Bruno  stopped  short  in  alarm.  Bergan's  face  had  grown 
deadly  pale,  his  blank  stare  was  that  of  a  man  who  neither 
saw  nor  heard.  For  a  few  merciful  moments,  he  was  simply 
stunned  with  the  suddenness  and  severity  of  the  shock. 
Too  soon  his  benumbed  senses  began  to  revive,  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  head,  where  a  dull,  heavy  pain  was  beginning  to 
make  itself  felt;  mechanically  he  sat  down  on  the  grass, 
and  his  breath  came  hard  like  that  of  a  man  stricken  with 
apoplexy. 

With  a  delicacy  not  uncommon  in  his  race,  Bruno 
turned  his  eyes  away.  A  trusted  servant  of  the  household, 
lie  had  seen  Bergan  and  Carice  together  enough  to  be  able 
to  divine  something  of  the  state  of  the  case. 

Slowly,  one  by  one,  Bergan's  thoughts  came  out  of 
chaos,  and  ranged  themselves  into  something  like  order. 
This,  then,  was  the  reason  why  Doctor  Remy  had  so  persis 
tently  discouraged  his  earlier  return  to  Berganton,  and 
allayed  his  anxiety  with  plausible  statements  respecting 
Carice  and  her  father, — that  he  might  supplant  him  in  her 
affections.  But  why?  It  must  be  taken  as  evidence  that 
he  had  estimated  the  doctor's  character  more  correctly 
than  he  knew,  that  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  as  possible 
that  love  for  Carice  had  been  the  doctor's  motive ;  yet, 
considered  solely  as  holding  the  reversion  of  the  Oakstead 
estate,  her  hand  was  scarcely  worth  the  labor  and  treachery 
it  had  cost. 


334:  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

There  was  so  little  to  reward  investigation  in  this  direc 
tion,  that  Bergan's  thoughts  came  back  to  his  own  blighted 
hopes,  and  here  he  was  pierced  with  the  shai'pest  pain  that 
he  had  yet  felt.  The  treachery  of  the  doctor  was  as  noth 
ing  to  the  faithlessness  of  Carice.  Two  months, — yea,  two 
days  ago,  he  would  have  staked  all  his  hopes  for  time  and 
eternity  on  her  truth.  Fair  and  delicate  as  was  the  cast  of 
her  beauty,  and  sweet  and  gentle  as  was  her  manner,  there 
had  always  been  a  certain  quiet  steadfastness  about  her, 
which  was  one  of  her  most  potent  charms.  All  hearts  felt 
intuitively  that  they  might  safely  trust  in  her.  What 
subtle  or  powerful  influence  could  have  been  brought  to 
bear  upon  her,  to  make  her  so  belie  herself! 

He  looked  up.  "  Bruno,  how  long  has  this  been  going 
on?" 

The  negro  did  not  quite  undei'stand,  but  made  shift  to 
guess  what  was  meant. 

"  De  engn Cement,  sah  ?  since  October,  I  b'lieve." 

"  And  ho\\r  long  has  Doctor  Remy  visited  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  good  while,  'bout  eber  since  you  went  away. 
But  after  massa  was  took  sick,  he  come  oftener,  ob  course 
— ebery  day,  sometimes  two,  tree  times  a  day.  Massa  got 
so — 'pendent  on  him,  like,  he  couldn't  bear  to  have  him 
out  ob  de  house,  one  time." 

Bergan  fell  into  thought  again.  He  began  dimly  to 
understand  something  of  the  sort  of  pressure  to  which 
Carice  had  been  subjected,  and  the  motives  that  had  gov 
erned  her, — not  that  he  held  her  exonerated,  by  any  means 
— only  she  was  a  little  less  culpable  than  she  had  seemed, 
at  first.  But  if  she  had  sinned,  poor  child !  how  miserably 
she  would  be  punished  !  What  a  sterile  soil,  what  a  chill, 
unfriendly  climate,  awaited  this  delicate  flower,  in  Doctor 
Remy's  hands !  It  was  as  if  a  lily  should  think  to  root 
itself  in  a  rock,  or  a  rose  expect  to  bud  and  blossom  on  an 
iceberg.  Besides — why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  before  ? 
— to-morrow,  perhaps,  in  two  or  three  days,  at  farthest, 


TOO    LATE.  335 

Doctor  Trubic  would  be  hero,  with  authority,  if  it  seemed 
good  to  him,  to  take  this  man,  her  husband,  into  custody 
as  a  murderer ! 

Bergan's  was  the  fine,  strong  temperament,  which  rises 
to  the  greatness  of  a  crisis.  With  the  necessity  of  action, 
the  chaos  of  his  mind  began  to  clear  itself.  "  Bruno,"  he 
asked,  suddenly,  "  does — Miss  Carice  love  this  man  ?  " 

Bruno  looked  surprised,  as  well  he  might,  at  the  ques 
tion  ;  but  there  was  something  in  Bergan's  tone  that  made 
him  answer  at  once,  and  frankly ;  "  I  don'  know, — de 
servants  do  say  she  done  it  to  please  her  father." 

Bergan  laid  his  hand  impressively  on  the  old  negro's 
shoulder.  "Bruno,  I  must  see  her  at  once.  Her  happi 
ness — more  than  her  happiness,  the  honor  and  peace  of  the 
whole  family — is  at  stake.  Find  some  way  to  let  her 
know,  quietly,  that  I  am  here,  and  that  I  must  see  her  for 
one  moment.  Hurry  !  there's  no  time  to  waste." 

Bruno  was  so  thoroughly  mastered  by  Bergan's  earnest 
ness,  that  he  started  swiftly  toward  the  cottage,  without  a 
word.  As  he  ascended  the  piazza  steps,  however,  he  began 
to  be  appalled  at  the  difficulty  of  the  task  that  he  had  un 
dertaken.  Looking  into  the  window,  he  saw  Carice  standing 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  long  parlor,  with  her  bridesmaids 
clustered  around  her.  He  could  neither  get  at  her,  nor  she 
escape,  without  challenging  a  good  deal  of  wondering  obser 
vation.  While  he  stood  hesitating,  Godfrey  Bergan  came 
out  into  the  hall,  and  caught  sight  of  his  troubled  face. 

"  Well,  Bruno,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I — jes'  wanted  to  speak  to  Miss  Carice,"  stammered 
the  negro. 

The  request  was  an  odd  one,  at  that  moment ;  still,  Mr. 
Bergan  might  have  been  moved  to  grant  it,  as  the  whim  of 
an  old  and  faithful  servant,  if  the  negro's  disturbed  face 
and  faltering  tone  had  not  excited  his  suspicions  that 
something  xmusual  was  on  foot.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  What  do  you  want  to  speak  to  her  for  ?  " 


336  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COKDS. 

Bruno  was  Avholly  unprepared  for  this  question.  Vainly 
he  racked  his  brains  for  a  plausible  answer,  but  nothing 
better  rewarded  his  efforts  than, — "  I  jes'  Avanted  to  speak 
to  her,  dat's  all;" — a  reply  so  little  congruous  with  his 
frightened  face  and  voice,  that  Mr.  Bergan's  suspicions 
were  confirmed.  He  stepped  out  on  the  piazza,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

"  Now,  Bruno,"  said  he,  sternly,  "  I  want  to  know  what 
this  means.  Come,  no  shuffling ;  tell  the  truth." 

Bruno's  self-possession  gave  way  entirely.  "  I — I — I — 
it's  only  Mr.  Arling." 

Mr.  Bergan  started.  "My  nephew,  Bergan  Arling,  do 
you  mean?" 

"  Yes,  massa." 

"  What— where  ?  " 

"  Out  dar,  under  de  larches,  massa." 

"  And  he — he  dared  to  ask  for  my  daughter  ?  " 

Mr.  Bergan's  voice  shook  with  anger.  Bruno  tried  to 
explain,  not  very  coherently. 

"  He  didn't  mean  no  harm,  massa,  I'se  sartain.  He  said 
her  happiness  and  all  you'se  happiness,  was  at  de  stake." 

"  Did  he  !  "  muttered  Mr.  IJergan,  scornfully.  "  Hark 
you,  Bruno,  not  a  word  of  this  to  anybody — to  anybody, 
mind  you!  Now,  go  back  to  your  dance, — I'll  see  Mr. 
Arling." 

Bergan's  impatience  had  brought  him  from  under  the 
larches  to  a  point  commanding  a  view  of  the  path  to  the 
cottage.  He  was  both  surprised  and  disappointed  to  see 
his  uncle  instead  of  Caricc ;  nevertheless,  he  came  frankly 
forward  to  meet  him,  holding  out  his  hand. 

*  O 

Mr.  Bergan  took  no  notice  of  the  friendly  offer.  "  How 
dare  you  show  yourself  here  ?  "  he  began,  his  voice  quiver 
ing  with  rage.  "  How  dare  you  insult  my  daughter  with 
your  presence,  at  this  time?  Have  you  not  done  harm 
enough  already  ?  " 


TOO    LATE.  337 

"Uncle,"  replied  Bergan,  gently,  "I  know  not  what 
you  mean.  I  have  never  harmed  Carice,  that  I  know  of, 
and  now  I  came  here  to  save  her,  if  it  be  not  too  late. 
Oh  !  uncle  " — and  here  his  calmness  began  to  fail  him,  and 
his  voice  grew  eager — "  do  not,  do  not  let  this  marriage 
proceed, — at  least,  not  until  you  have  heard  my  story,  and 
have  satisfied  yourself  of  the  real  character  of  this  Doctor 
Remy ! " 

"  What  have  you  to  say  against  his  character  ? "  de 
manded  Mr.  Bergan,  icily. 

Bergan  felt  the  full  disadvantage  of  his  position.  It 
was  a  heavy  charge  that  he  had  to  make  against  a  man  of 
Doctor  Remy's  standing,  without  documents  or  witnesses, 
nothing  to  substantiate  it  but  his  single  assertion.  Be 
sides,  to  say  truth,  there  was  nothing  to  allege  against 
Doctor  Remy  but  Doctor  Trubie's  suspicions.  He  hesi 
tated,  and  his  hesitation  was  not  lost  upon  his  uncle; 
neither  was  the  want  of  assurance  with  which  he  finally 
spoke. 

"  Uncle,  there  is  great  reason  to  believe — or,  at  least  to 
suspect — that  Doctor  Remy  is  a — murderer, — the  murderer 
of  my  brother  Alec." 

Godfrey  Bergan  stood  in  silent  scorn.  The  accusation 
struck  him  as  too  extravagant,  too  baseless,  to  be  seriously 
discussed.  His  nephew  must  be  drunk,  or  mad,  to  make 
it.  And,  now  that  he  looked  at  him  more  narrowly,  his 
face  was  haggard  and  his  dress  disordered  enough  to  befit 
either  condition. 

Bergan  saw  the  impression  that  he  had  made,  and  a 
cold,  sick  despair  crept  over  him.  "  I  beg  of  you,  uncle," 
he  exclaimed,  vehemently,  "  as  you  value  your  own  future 
peace  of  mind,  put  a  stop  to  this  unhappy  business,  ere  it  be 
too  late." 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  impatiently, 
"  Carice  is  already  married." 

"  Must  she,  therefore,  be  left  in  the  hands  of  a  murderer? 
15 


338  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

Save  her,  at  least,  from  farther  contamination.  If  you  will 
do  nothing  else,  call  her,  arid  let  her  decide  the  matter  for 
herself." 

"  Impossible,"  answered  Mr.  Bergan,  decidedly.  "  Carice 
has  already  borne  and  suffered  too  much  ;  her  nerves  are  in 
an  exceedingly  sensitive  state  ;  this  story  would  kill  her,  I 
verily  believe.  If  you  really  have  her  happiness  at  heart, 
go  away  quietly,  and  leave  her  to  the  care  of  the  husband 
bhe  has  chosen." 

"  Chosen  ?  "  repeated  Bergan,  bitterly, — "  has  she  chosen 
him,  or  has  she  only  been  forced  to  wed  him  ?  " 

Godfrey  Bergan's  eyes  lit.  "  You  forget  to  whom  you 
are  speaking,"  said  he,  coldly.  "  Enough  of  this,  my 
patience  is  exhausted.  I  have  listened  to  your  drivel  longer 
than  it  deserves.  The  quicker  you  take  your  leave,  the 
better." 

Bergan  drew  himself  up  haughtily,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
back  an  answering  flame.  "  My  patience  is  also  exhausted," 
said  he.  "  I  have  begged  and  pleaded  long  enough.  I  tell 
you  now,  tmcle,  that  I  will  not  go,  until  I  have  seen  Carice, 
if  I  seek  her  out  among  the  wedding  guests." 

Godfrey  Bergan  set  his  teeth  hard.  ""Will  not?"  lie 
repeated  angrily.  "Will  not!  I  will  have  you  to  under 
stand,  young  man,  that  there  is  neither  will,  nor  will  not,  on 
these  premises,  but  mine.  On  my  soul,  if  you  do  not  go, 
and  quickly,  I  will  call  my  servants,  and  have  you  put  off 
from  the  place  as  a  drunkard  and  a  vagabond." 

At  this  threat,  the  hereditary  temper,  scotched  in  Ber 
gan's  heart,  but  not  yet  killed,  reared  its  evil  head  aloft, 
and  sent  its  deadly  poison  burning  through  all  his  veins. 

"  Call  them,"  he  retorted,  in  a  voice  deep  and  low  as 
a  distant  thunder  peal,  and  lifting  his  clenched  hand  on 
high, — "  call  them,  if  it  so  pleases  you  !  Their  blood  be  on 
your  head,  not  mine." 

Godfrey  Bergah  was  no  coward,  yet  he  might  well 
stand  aghast  at  the  unexpected  fury  of  the  tempest  that  he 


TOO   LATE.  339 

had  evoked.  Moreover,  to  put  his  threat  in  execution, 
he  now  saw,  was  to  court  that  publicity  which  he  specially 
desired  to  avoid.  He  stood  irresolute,  questioning  within 
himself  how  best  to  deal  with  the  emergency. 

He  was  saved  the  trouble  of  a  decision.  While  he  still 
hesitated,  Bergan's  hand  fell  by  his  side,  his  eyes  softened, 
and  a  spasm  of  anguish  passed  over  his  face.  "  God  forgive 
me !  "  he  murmured,  shudderingly, — "  I,  too,  was  a  murderer 
—in  heart ! " 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands.  Woful  was  the  inner 
conflict.  Within  his  soul,  the  "  black  Bergan  temper"  was 
gasping  out  its  last  venomous  breath,  with  the  clutch  of  a 
firm  hand  on  its  throat.  Agonizing  were  its  death-throes. 
They  ceased  at  last.  It  would  never  trouble  him  more. 

Godfrey  Bergan,  standing  by,  saw  something  of  the 
struggle,  yet  did  not  understand  it  in  the  least.  "  A  drunk 
ard's  aimless  wrath  !  "  he  said  to  himself, — "  quenched  in  its 
own  fury." 

So  cai'elessly  does  the  world  construe  the  deeper  soul- 
conflicts  that  come  under  its  observation  ! 

Bergan  lifted  his  head,  and  his  face  was  ashy  pale. 
"  I  go,  uncle,"  said  he,  hoarsely,  "  since  that  is  your  wish. 
In  all  that  I  have  said,  though  said  never  so  unwisely,  I  as 
sure  you  that  I  have  had  only  Carice's  happiness  at  heart ; 
and  I  pray  God  that  you  may  not  have  cause  to  rue  it,  to 
your  dying  day,  that  you  did  not  listen  to  me  ! " 

He  turned  and  plunged  into  the  darkness,  not  knowing 
whither  he  went. 


XIIL 

ESCAPED. 

ODFRET  BERGAN  stood  motionless  for  some  rain- 
utes.  His  nephew's  persistency  had  irritated  his 
nerves,  if  it  had  not  convinced  his  understanding. 
Nor  was  he  altogether  unimpressed  by  the  solemnity  of 
the  young  man's  parting  words.  Though  he  had  not 
condescended  to  state  the  fact  to  Bergan,  it  was  still 
true  that  he  had  exacted  what  he  considered  to  be 
very  complete  and  satisfactory  evidence,  touching  the 
correctness  of  Doctor  Remy's  antecedents,  before  giving 
him  his  daughter.  Yet  it  was  only  after  he  had  reca 
pitulated  this  evidence  to  himself,  point  by  point,  and 
had  also  taken  into  account  the  doctor's  late  brilliant 
achievements,  present  high  standing,  and  promising  pros 
pects  for  the  future,  that  he  could  rid  himself  of  a  certain 
chill  weight  of  responsibility,  which  seemed  somehow  to 
have  been  flung  upon  his  shoulders  by  Bergan's  last  sen 
tence. 

On  entering  the  cottage,  he  met  Carice  in  the  hall, 
encircled  by  her  bridesmaids.  He  was  half  pleased,  half 
startled  to  see  that  the  singular  listlessness,  amounting  to 
a  degree  of  apathy,  which  had  characterized  her  for  some 
weeks,  had  given  place  to  a  certain  tremulous  agitation. 
A  round  red  spot  burned  on  either  cheek,  where  of  late  the 
bloom  had  been  both  rare  and  faint ;  and  her  eyes  were 
bright  and  wistful  almost  to  wildness.  With  a  sudden  im- 

O 

pulse  of  tenderness,  he  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  pressed 
her  to  his  heart. 

"  Father,"  she  whispered,  with  her  lips  close  to  his  ear, 


ESCAPED.  341 

"  am  I  dreaming  or  mad  ?  I  have  heard  a  voice  in  the  air 
— Bergan's  voice.  I  was  standing  by  the  window,  and 
I  heard  it  distinctly, — no  words,  only  tones, — pleading, 
pleading,  until  I  thought  they  would  break  my  heart. 
Then  all  at  once,  they  changed  to  anger, — fierce,  bitter 
anger !  And  they  ended  in  despair !  Father,  what  could 
it  mean ! " 

"  My  child,"  said  Godfrey  Bergan,  after  a  pause,  and 
there  was  a  perceptible  tremor  in  his  voice,  "  you  are  very 
weak  and  nervous,  and  these  wedding  gayeties  have  been 
too  much  for  you.  Go  to  rest,  and  sleep  away  your  fa 
tigues  and  your  fancies  together  ;  joy  cometh  in  the  morn 
ing.  The  wife  of  Felix  Remy  will  hear  no  voices  in  the 
air.  Good-night." 

He  unclasped  his  arms,  and  her  bridesmaids,  again  clus 
tering  round  her,  led  her  upstairs  in  triumph. 

But  no  sooner  had  they  freed  her  from  her  bridal  garni 
ture, — the  veil's  soft  mistiness,  the  robe's  heavy,  satiny 
folds,  the  fragrant  orange  blossoms,  already  beginning  to 
fade ! — than  she  put  them  gently  aside. 

"Bid  me  good-night,  now,"  she  said,  with  quiet  de 
cision.  "I  am  very  tired,  and  I  want  to  be  alone  for 
awhile.  Rosa  will  do  the  rest." 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  which  forbade  remon 
strance  ;  quickly  the  door  shut  out  the  fresh,  young  faces, 
and  snowy,  fluttering  robes. 

Was  she,  as  she  had  desired  to  be,  alone  ? 

Alas!  no.  The  image  evoked  by  that  "voice  in  the 
air,"  had  followed  her  across  the  threshold,  and  still  faced 
her  with  sad,  upbraiding  eyes.  Instinctively,  she  threw 
herself  upon  her  knees  to  exorcise  it  by  the  spell  of  prayer. 
Though  no  intelligible  word  might  come  to  her  trembling 
lips,  though  not  a  coherent  thought  might  shape  itself  in 
her  dizzy  brain,  she  was,  nevertheless,  prostrate  at  the  foot 
of  the  cross,  and  the  Saviour  would  understand  ! 

And  so — let  us  not  presume  to  doubt  it — He  did,  and, 


342  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

moreover,  answered.  But  the  ways  of  Providence  are 
utterly  inscrutable ;  and  the  answer  came  in  no  shape  that 
would  have  been  likely  to  present  itself  to  her  mind,  had 
she  been  capable  of  definite  thought.  She  rose  from  her 
knees  but  little  comforted. 

For  the  delirious  disquietude  that  had  taken  possession 
of  her,  had  its  physical,  not  less  than  its  mental,  side.  The 
long  overstraining  of  the  delicate  nerves,  the  long  overbur 
dening  of  the  heart  that  knew  its  own  bitterness,  were  fast 
reaching  the  point  beyond  which  must  needs  come  fever, 
or  insanity,  or  death.  Nature — often  the  wisest  of  physi 
cians,  when  left  to  herself — had  sought  to  work  restoration 
by  means  of  the  apathy  aforementioned,  wrapping  her 
mind  and  heart  as  with  quilted  armor;  but  the  events  of 
this  night  had  pierced  quite  through  the  soft  sheathing, 
and  set  every  nerve  quivering  with  pain.  Unable  to  re 
main  long  in  one  position,  she  soon  began  to  pace  restlessly 
up  and  down  the  room.  She  was  dimly  aware  that  Rosa 
had  come  in,  and  was  waiting  her  commands;  but  she 
never  once  looked  to  see  with  what  a  disturbed  and  doubt 
ful  face  the  young  n egress  was  regarding  her. 

Getting  weary,  at  last,  of  her  monotonous  march  to  and 
fro,  she  went  to  the  window,  and  leaned  out  to  bathe  her 
fevered  temples  in  the  cool  night  air.  Suddenly  she  cried 
out ; — 

"  Rosa,  see !     Is  not  that  a  light  in  the  old  Hall  ?  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Carice,  it's  just  that,"  answered  Rosa,  im 
pressively.  "  It's  in  Mr.  Arling's  room.  He's  here." 

"  Here  !  "  Carice  stalled,  and  turned  round  with  eager, 
expectant  eyes. 

"  No,  no,"  Rosa  hastened  to  say,  "  not  here, — at  least, 
not  now." 

"Not  now,"  repeated  Carice,  Avonderingly.  "When 
was  he  here,  then  ?  " 

Rosa  hesitated  for  an  instant,  ami  then  flung  herself  at 
her  mistress's  feet.  "I  will  tell  you,"  she  cried,  vehe- 


ESCAPED.    •  343 

mently, — "  master  may  kill  me,  if  he  likes,  but  I  will  tell 
you !  Mr.  Arling  was  here  not  much  more  than  half  an 
hour  ago." 

Carice  smiled, — a  strange,  wan  smile,  with  no  spirit  of 
mirthfulness  in  it,  but  something  of  gentle  triumph,  as 
well  as  relief.  "  It  was  no  fancy,  then,"  she  murmured, 
softly. 

Rosa  went  on.  "I  was  walking  down  by  the  river — 
with  Tom,  you  know — when  I  thought  it  must  be  getting 
late,  and  you  might  want  me,  and  so  I  took  the  short  cut 
through  the  larches.  And  who  should  I  see  standing  there 
but  Mr.  Arling,  and  your  father  coming  to  meet  him !  So 
I  slipped  back  behind  the  trees,  meaning  to  come  round 
the  other  way ;  but  I  caught  a  few  words,  and  then  i  lis 
tened  ; — I  couldn't  help  it,  Miss  Carice,  if  I'd  died  for  it. 
For  Mr.  Arling  began  to  beg  and  plead  that  your  father 
wouldn't  let  your  wedding  go  on,  if  he  cared  anything 
about  your  happiness.  He  said  thei-e  was  something  dread 
ful  against  Doctor  Remy, — oh !  Miss  Carice,  I  don't  like  to 
say  it,  but  I  think  you  ought  to  know, — he  said  he  was  a" 
— sinking  her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper — "  a  murderer." 

Carice's  eyes  dilated  with  horror.  "  A  murderer ! "  she 
gasped, — "oh!  no,  no,  Rosa;  you  could,  not  have  heard 
him  right ! " 

"Indeed  I  did,"  rejoined  Rosa,  firmly.  "That's  the 
very  word  he  used, — more  than  once,  too.  At  least,  he  said 
there  was  great  reason  to  believe  so  ;  and  he  begged  your 
father  to  wait  until  he  could  make  sure  about  it.  Oh  !  Miss 
Carice,  I  never  did  like  Doctor  Remy,  but  I  always  liked 
Mr.  Arling,  and  I  don't  believe  he'd  say  a  word  that  wasn't 
true.  Do  pray  wait,  as  he  said,  until  you  can  find  out  the 
whole  truth,  before  you  have  anything  more  to  say  to  the 
doctoi'.  Lock  your  door,  and  say  you're  sick — I'm  sure 
you  look  as  if  you  might  be — and  I'll  promise  to  keep  him 
out,  if  he  were  ten  Doctor  Remys." 

And  Rosa  set  her  teeth  and  clenched  her  hands,  in  a 


344  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

way  that  promised  much  for  her  valor  in  the  cause  of  her 
young  mistress. 

Carice  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  tried  to  think, 
but  merely  succeeded  in  bewildering  herself  with  images 
of  horror.  That  frightful  word,  murderer,  continually 
sounded  in  her  ears,  to  the  effectual  hindrance  of  anything 
like  connected  thought.  Only  one  idea  presented  itself  to 
her  confused  brain  with  even  tolerable  distinctness, — Ber- 
gan  was  near,  Bergan  was  in  possession  of  knowledge  that 
might  yet  relieve  her,  to  some  extent,  from  a  burden  too 
heavy  to  be  borne, — a  burden  which  she  ought  never  to 
have  consented  to  take  upon  hci'self,  nor  ever  would  have 
done,  had  she  not  first  been  bound  fast  with  a  torpor  that 
benumbed  both  feeling  and  will.  Still,  having  so  consented, 
she  would  have  tried,  but  for  Rosa's  terrible  revelation,  to 
endure  it  patiently.  Now,  it  seemed  to  her,  this  was  no 
longer  possible. 

Again  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  gleaming  light  from 
the  old  Hall ;  the  only  star  of  hope  or  suggestion  that  had 
yet  risen  upon  her  darkness.  What  could  she  do,  in  her 
mortal  terror  and  bewilderment,  but  follow  it  ? 

"  Rosa,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  I  am  going  to  the  Hall. 
I  must  see 'Bergan,  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say  ;  then  I  can 
decide  what  it  is  right  to  do." 

"  And  so  I  would,"  rejoined  Rosa,  approvingly.  "  Just 
let  me  slip  this  dark  wrapper  on  you,  and  wind  this  scarf 
round  your  head,  and  well  over  your  face, — so  ; — why, 
your  own  father  wouldn't  know  you,  if  he  were  to  meet 
you  !  Now,  we'll  be  off." 

Carice  hesitated.  "  No,  Rosa,  that  will  never  do ;  our 
absence  would  be  quickly  discovered.  You  must  stay  and 
keep  the  door." 

"  But,  Miss  Carice,  you  can't  go  alone  !  " 

"  I  can,  and  must.  It  is  the  only  way  to  prevent  dis 
covery.  Remember,  no  one  is  to  be  let  in,  upon  any  con 
sideration,  until  I  return." 


ESCAPED.  345 

"  Let  me  alone  for  that,"  responded  Rosa,  emphatically. 
And  having  seen  Carice  safely  down  the  steps  from  the 
upper  piazza,  and  watched  her  light  form  till  it  was  lost 
among  the  trees,  Rosa  returned  to  mount  guard  over  the 
door  of  the  deserted  chamber. 

Godfrey  Bergan  had  been  unaccountably  shaken  by 
that  brief  meeting  and  parting  with  his  daughter,  in  the 
hall.  Watching  her  slender  form  as  it  toiled  up  the  stair 
case,  with  the  languid  step  that  betrays  a  heavy  or  a  reluc 
tant  heart,  he  sighed  to  think  with  what  a  graceful  alacrity 
she  had  used  to  flit  upward,  as  if  lifted  on  invisible  wings, 
her  happy  smile  seeming  to  make  a  little  illuminated  space 
about  her,  like  the  light  which  is  seen  irradiating  angelic 
forms,  in  old  pictures.  A  sudden  burden  of  despondency 
fell  upon  his  heart,  whereof  he  understood  neither  the  pur- 
port,nor  whether  it  bore  reference  to  her  or  himself,  but  only 
knew  that  it  quite  unfitted  him  for  playing  the  part  of  a 
gay  and  gracious  host  to  his  guests.  Seeing  Miss  Ferrars 
coming  toward  him,  with  her  stereotyped  smile,  an  impulse 
of  flight  seized  him ;  and  hastily  stepping  through  one  of 
the  long  windows,  he  soon  found  himself  once  more  under 
the  sighing  trees,  which  were  swaying  to  and  fro  under  the 
first  breathings  of  a  rising  wind. 

The  night  was  no  longer  dark.  Here  and  there,  a  star 
looked  through  the  broken  clouds,  and  lighted  him  Jo  the 
river's  bank,  down  which  he  walked  slowly  ;  torturing  him 
self,  as  he  went,  with  that  weary  after-birth  of  doubts  and 
questions,  which  often  follows  hard  upon  the  accomplishment 
of  a  cherished  purpose.  Had  he  done  well  in  wedding  Ca- 
rice  to  the  doctor?  Had  lie  not  done  wrong  in  refusing  to 
listen  to  Bergan,  at  least  with  courtosy  and  calmness  ?  Was 
it  barely  possible  that  there  could  have  been  some  small  grain 
of  truth  at  the  bottom  of  the  young  man's  turbid  story  ? 
What  was  the  meaning  of  that  odd,  wild  look  in  Carice's 
eyes?  Had  he  been  thrusting  himself,  as  it  were,  into  the 
15* 


34:6  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

awful  place  of  Providence,  only,  by  reason  of  his  human 
short-sightedness,  to  work  irremediable  ruin? 

At  that  moment,  a  dark,  slender  woman's  figure  hurried 
past  him,  toward  the  "ruined  foot-bridge,  which  was  near  at 
hand.  "  One  of  my  brother's  servants,  who  has  stolen  over 
to  dance  with  mine,"  he  said  to  himself,  turning  idly  to 
watch  her  progress. 

To  his  utter  amazement,  at  the  further  end,  he  seemed 
to  see  her  cast  herself  deliberately  into  the  water  ! 

Godfrey  Bergan  was  a  practised  swimmer,  and,  after  the 
first  motionless  moment  of  astonishment,  ho  threw  off  his 
coat,  plunged  into  the  stream,  which,  at  this  point,  was 
neither  rapid  nor  deep,  and  swam  rapidly  toward  the  spot 
where  lie  had  seen  the  body  disappear.  Here,  the  water 
was  scarcely  up  to  his  armpits  ;  in  a  few  moments,  lie  had 
caught  the  floating  garments,  and  borne  the  lifeless  form  to 
land.  The  heavy  head  fell  back  on  his  arm ;  the  scarf 
trailed  away  from  the  white  features ;  lie  recognized  Carico ! 

With  a  thick,  muffled  cry  of  horror,  the  father  sank 
upon  his  knees,  not  so  much  of  devotional  intent,  as  crushed 
under  the  double- weight  of  his  physical  burden  and  mental 
anguish. 

"  Oh,  God  !  have  mercy  upon  us  !  "  he  ejaculated,  bro 
kenly, — "  I  have  driven  my  child  to  suicide  !  " 


XIV. 

THE    WA.Y    STOPPED. 

BERGAN  ARLING,  on  quitting  his  uncle,  bad  flung 
himself  into  the  surrounding  darkness,  without  aim, 
without  hope;  conscious  only  of  an  intolerable  bur 
den  of  grief  and  despair.  Coming  to  the  river,  he  had 
mechanically  strode  down  its  bank.  Mechanically,  too,  he 
had  crossed  the  foot-bridge,  when  it  came  in  his  way ;  and 
was  scarcely  aware  that  its  last  rotten  plank,  on  the  Hall 
end,  had  given  away  under  his  feet,  and  that  he  had  nar 
rowly  missed  being  precipitated  into  the  water.  In  due 
time,  lie  found  himself  standing  before  the  deserted  mansion, 
looking  up  to  its  dark  front  with  eyes  just  beginning  to  be 
capable  of  intelligent  vision,  and  acknowledging  to  himself 
that,  though  his  path  had  been  but  blindly  chosen,  it  had 
brought  him  to  a  fitting  goal. 

"  A  ruined  home,  and  a  ruined  life,"  he  murmured, 
with  a  kind  of  bitter  mournfulness, — "they  will  suit  each 
other  well ! " 

The  door  was  locked,  but  there  was  a  dilapidated  flight 
of  steps  leading  to  the  rotten  upper  piazza,  and  the  window 
of  his  old  room  yielded  readily  to  pressure.  The  lamp, 
too,  was  in  its  remembered  place,  and,  having  lighted  it, 
he  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  to  sum  up  the  record  of  his 
past  life,  and  strike  the  balance. 

Not  that  he  did  this  consciously.  Although  he  felt  intu 
itively  that  he  had.  reached  a  turning-point  in  his  path, 
from  whence  its  course  and  circumstance,  if  not  its  aim, 
might  well  be  changed,  it  was  with  the  future  only — the 
consideration  of  the  question  what  to  do  next — that  ho 


348  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

purposed  to  occupy  himself.  But  the  sight  of  the  familiar 
room,  and  the  ancient  furniture  and  ornaments  wherewith 
he  had  filled  it,  having  inevitably  recalled  the  period  of  his 
first  occupancy,  and  the  occasion  of  his  sudden  departure, 
he  could  not  fail  to  see  how  all  his  life  since  had  seemed  to 
hinge  on  that  one  deplorable  incident.  Had  he  resisted 
Major  Bergan's  will  in  the  single  particular  of  entering  that 
vile  tavern,  or  refused,  first  as  well  as  last,  to  drink  at  his 
bidding,  doubtless  he  would  have  lost  his  favor  all  the 
same,  but  he  would  scarcely  have  been  so  completely  sub 
jugated  by  his  own  fierce  temper,  he  would  not  have  com 
menced  his  career  in  Berganton  under  such  a  cloud,  he 
would  not  have  been  left  to  drift  in  so  inauspicious  an 
intimacy  with  Doctor  Remy,  his  Uncle  Godfrey  would  not 
have  become  so  deeply  prejudiced  against  him, — possibly, 
even, the  course  of  his  love  might  have  run  smooth,  despite 
the  verdict  of  the  immortal  poet,  nor  yet  have  vitiated  its 
claim  to  be  a  "  true  "  one.  What  a  pregnant  commentary 
was  all  this  upon  that  wonderful  text  of  Mi*.  Tslay's  memo 
rable  sermon.  How  tightly  had  he  been  "  holden  with  the 
cords  of  his  sins"  to  a  long  and  wearisome  discipline,  and 
a  final  mystery  of  retribution, — a  reti-ibution  involving, 
alas !  the  innocent  not  less  than  the  guilty.  Poor,  poor 
Carice  !  how  much  easier  would  it  be  to  bear  his  own  por 
tion,  if  only  hers  could  be  remitted  ! 

Hark!  was  not  that  a  cry  from  the  direction  of  the 
river?  He  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  listened  atten 
tively  ;  but  the  sound — if  sound  it  were,  and  not  the  simple 
product  of  his  own  disordered  fancy — was  not  repeated. 
Nothing  was  to  be  heard  save  the  low  sough  of  the  rising 
wind,  and  the  melancholy  voices  of  the  trees,  as  one  solemn 
old  oak-top  leaned  toward  another,  and  talked  mysteriously 
of  some  woful  event  that  it  had  witnessed — perhaps  a 
century  ago,  perhaps  later — or  recounted  drearily  the  long 
list  of  human  sorrows  and  sins  and  retributions  stored  up 
in  its  dreamy  old  memory.  There  might  have  been  heard, 


THE    WAY    STOPPED.  349 

too,  in  its  farther  talk,  if  only  the  ear  were  fine  enough 
that  listened, — something  of  patience  born  of  sorrow,  and 
blessedness  wrenched  from  the  hand  of  suffering ;  of  lofty 
hopes  blossoming  out  of  the  ashes  of  despair,  and  fair,  new 
temples,  vocal  with  the  anthem  of  glory  to  God  and  good 
will  to  man,  built  over  and  out  of  heaps  of  ruins.  A  few 
words,  too,  might  have  been  added  of  love — human  love — 
as  the  crowning  grace  and  gladness  of  a  man's  life, — the 
delicate  carving  beautifying  the  arches,  capitals,  and  pin 
nacles  of  the  temple,  the  thick  greenery  softening  its  sharp 
outlines,  and  the  odorous  blossoms  rooting  themselves  in 
its  angles  and  hollows ;  but  neither  its  strong  foundations, 
its  majestic  walls,  nor  the  upward  spring  of  its  spire, — and 
never,  in  any  sense,  the  object  of  its  rightful  worship. 

Perhaps  Bergan  heard  something  of  all  this ;  at  any 
rate,  that  cry  from  the  river,  whether  real  or  imagined,  had 
broken  the  thread  of  his  review  of  the  past,  and  brought 
back  his  mind  to  the  question  of  the  future.  What  was  to 
be  done?  Leave  Berganton,  of  course.  The  place  was 
not  wide  enough  to  hold  Carice  and  himself,  with  comfort 
to  either.  If  her  marriage  had  been  brought  about  in  the 
way  that  he  suspected,  the  sight  of  him  would  scarce  con 
duce  to  her  peace  ;  while  the  sight  of  her,  in  her  new  rela 
tion,  could  only  cause  him  useless  pain.  Moreover,  he  had 
seen,  from  the  first,  that  Berganton  afforded  little  scope  for 
talent ;  none  whatever  for  ambition.  And,  now  that  his 
life  seemed  likely  to  be  limited  to  its  public  side,  and  to 
have  no  sweet,  compensating  domestic  one,  he  felt  the 
necessity  of  directing  its  course  to  some  quarter  where 
there  was  room  for  proper  expansion. 

Happily,  the  way  was  open.  Only  a  short  time  ago,  he 
had  received  a  most  favorable  offer,  which  he  still  held 
under  consideration, — an  invitation  to  enter  into  partner 
ship  with  an  eminent  lawyer  of  Savalla,  beginning  to 
succumb  to  the  infirmities  of  old  age,  and  likely,  ere  long, 
to  surrender  to  him  all  the  active  business  of  the  firm. 


350  IIOLDKN    WITH    THE    CORDS 

Nothing  could  suit  him  better.  Here  was  scope  for  all  his 
talent,  employment  for  all  his  energy.  He  would  be  near 
enough  to  Berganton,  too.  for  any  good  name  that  he  might 
win  to  reach  thither,  and  clear  away  whatever  prejudice 
against  him  still  lingered  there;  yet  not  near  enough  to  be 
necessarily  brought  into  contact  with  its  inhabitants. 

So  much  for  the  future ;  Avhat  of  the  present  ? 

First,  he  would  see  Mrs.  Lyte  and  Astra,  bid  them  fare 
well,  and  arrange  for  the  removal  of  his  effects.  Then  lie 
would  hasten  to  Savalla,  to  do  the  last  kindness  that  it 
was  in  his  power  to  do  for  Caiice,  even  though  it  would 
seem  to  justify  her  father's  late  incredulity  and  contemptu 
ous  treatment, — namely,  meet  Doctor  Trubie,  and  dissuade 
him  from  any  further  proceedings  against  Doctor  Remy. 
There  was  still  room  for  a  doubt  that  the  latter  was  the 
murderer  of  Alec  Arling ; — let  it  remain  forever  a  doubt ! 
No  weapon  should  be  lifted  against  him,  that  must  needs 
fall  most  heavily  upon  Carice  ! 

It  was  gray  dawn  when  this  conclusion  was  reached. 
The  stars  were  fading  from  the  sky,  as  a  hint  that  it  was 
time  to  extinguish  his  lamp.  The  East  showed  a  broad  rim 
of  light, — only  a  silver  one  now,  but  with  some  mystic  inti 
mation  of  the  gold  to  which  it  would  soon  be  transmuted. 
Was  any  similar  change  beginning  to  show  itself  in  Ber- 
gan's  heart  ? 

If  so,  he  was  in  nowise  conscious  of  it.  His  mind  having 
attained  to  a  comparative  degree  of  composure,  his  body  be 
gan  to  press  its  claims  upon  him  with  some  pertinacity.  It 
was  twenty-four  hours  since  he  had  taken  food,  and  nearly 
double  that  time  since  he  had  slept;  this,  too,  on  the  end 
of  along,  tedious  journey,  and  while  undergoing  sore  anxiety 
and  distress  of  mind.  No  wonder  that  his  head  was  aching 
furiously  at  the  temples,  and  seemed  to  have  a  ponderous 
weight  on  top,  nor  that  lie  had  a  sensation  of  dizziness  at 
times,  while  a  blinding  mist  came  before  his  eyes. 

He  prepai'ed  to  leave  Bergan  Hall.     That,  too,  was  to  be 


T11K    WAY    STOPPED.  351 

henceforth,  so  far  as  lie  was  concerned,  a  thing  of  the  past. 
It  had  given  him  needful  solitude  and  shelter,  in  his  hour 
of  deep  despair ;  it  had  been  the  fittest  possible  place  where 
in  to  take  leave  of  the  old  life  and  its  shattered  hope ;  but 
for  the  new,  it  had  nothing  to  offer, — except,  perhaps,  a 
warning.  The  stream  of  active,  expansive,  beneficent  life 
must  forever  flow  away  from  its  faded  splendor,  its  crum 
bling  massiveness,  its  dusty  traditions  and  aristocratic  gene 
alogies,  and  its  corrupt  feudal  laws  and  customs,  as  well  as 
from  that  moral  ruin,  its  selfish,  tyrannic,  besotted  master. 
Together,  they  might  well  be  likened  to  a  half-buried,  de 
composing  corpse  ;  showing  still,  through  the  overspreading 
mould  and  fungi,  some  faint  trace  of  its  former  grace  and 
nobility  of  shape  and  feature,  but  chiefly  impressing  the 
spectator  with  the  carelessness  of  its  exposure  and  the  un- 
sightliness  of  its  decay. 

And  yet,  how  strong  a  hold,  after  all,  had  both  master 
and  mansion  upon  his  heart !  Some  time,  surely,  when  he 
should  have  won  fame  and  fortune  enough  to  be  above  all 
suspicion  of  self-seeking,  he  might  come  back  to  visit  them, 
and  see  what  could  be  done  for  both. 

With  this  thought  in  his  mind,  he  was  about  to  quit  the 
room  as  he  had  entered  it,  by  the  window,  when  a  light 
knock  on  the  door  arrested  his  attention.  Almost  immedi 
ately,  Rue  entered,  and  bade  him  good  morning. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?  "  was  Bergan's  first 
startled  inquiry. 

"  I  heard  you  when  you  came,"  she  answered,  quietly, 
"  and  I  knew  your  step.  I  always  spend  this  night  in  the 
old  house  ;  it  is  the  anniversary  of  your  mother's  wedding  ; 
and  she  comes  back  to  me  in  all  her  youth  and  beauty, 
and  the  rooms  light  up,  and  flowers  sweeten  the  air,  and 
there  is  music  and  dancing,  and  the  sound  of  gay  young 
voices ;  and  then,  all  goes  out,  and  I  remember  that  earth 
grows  dim  as  heaven  draws  near.  Yes,  Master  Bergan,  I 
heard  you  when  you  came,  and  I  should  have  come  to  you 


352  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

at  once,  only  that  there  was  something  in  yonr  step  which 
told  me  you  came  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  would  not  like 
to  be  disturbed.  It  is  lighter  now  ?  " 

"  A  little,  maumer ;  though  it  is  heavy  enough  yet." 

"And  nothing  will  lighten  it  but  time, — and  that 
means  the  Lord,  for  time  is  the  Lord's  servant,  and  does 
His  will." 

"  You  know,  then," — began  Bergan,  and  stopped,  unable 
to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  I  know  much,  Master  Bergan  ;  more  than  you  think. 
Many  voices  come  to  whisper  in  the  old  blind  woman's  ear." 

"  Do  you  know,"  asked  Bergan.  suddenly,  "  why  Doctor 
Remy  has  married  Carice  ?  " 

"Certainly, — to  make  himself  master  of  Bergan  Hall. 
The  more  fool  he  !  Rue  could  have  told  him  it  was  written 
on  the  stars  that  it  should  have  another  and  a  better  mas 
ter;  and  the  stars  do  not  lie.  But  I  am  sorry  for  Miss 
Carice ;  I  would  have  saved  her  if  I  could,  but  there  the 
stars  were  silent." 

"I  could  have  helped  the  stars  in  that  matter,  if  I  had 
known,"  thought  Bergan.  But  he  only  asked,  doubtfully ; 
— "  How  should  Doctor  Remy  expect  to  get  the  Hall  by 
marrying  Carice?" 

"  Because  your  Uncle  Harry  has  made  his  wili,  giving 
it  to  her.  Never  doubt  me,  Master  Bergan,  I  know  what 
I  am  talking  of;  and  when  I  tell  you  that  you  shall  yet 
own  Bergan  Hall,  and  all  the  gold  that  is  hidden  in  it,  and 
every  foot  of  land  that  belongs  to  it,  you  may  believe  it  as 
implicitly  as  if  it  were  written  in  your  Bible." 

Bergan  shook  his  head ;  the  Hall  had  ceased  to  have 
any  value  in  his  eyes,  as  a  possession  of  his  own,  or  any 
place  in  the  future  that  he  proposed  to  himself.  Appar 
ently,  Rue  understood  his  silence  as  well  as  if  he  had 
spoken,  for  she  did  not  press  the  subject. 

She  next  inquired  into  his  plans,  and  he  explained  them 
to  her,  as  far  as  they  concerned  himself. 


THE   WAY   STOPPED.  353 

"  It  is  well,"  she  said,  after  a  moment  of  reflection. 
"  You  could  not  stay  here,  of  course, — you  would  be  eating 
your  heart  out  in  this  dull  place.  Do  your  duty  in  the 
path  that  lies  so  straight  before  you,  and  trust  God  for  the 
rest." 

As  he  quitted  the  old  Hall  it  occurred  to  him  how 
strangely  events  were  repeating  themselves.  Once  more, 
Rue  stood  in  the  doorway,  in  the  gray  light  of  the  dawn, 
and  promised  him  its  future  ownership  ;  once  more,  he  took 
the  road  to  Berganton,  leaving  behind  him  one  phase  of 
his  life,  and  entering  upon  a  new  one. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel  he  learned  that  the  horse,  which 
he  had  left  at  Oakstead  on  the  previous  evening,  had  been 
sent  to  the  stables,  with  strict  injunctions  that  he  should 
be  notified  accordingly,  immediately  on  his  arrival, — the 
friendly  act,  no  doubt,  of  old  Bruno. 

Here,  too,  he  first  learned  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Lyte  and 
her  family ;  a  piece  of  information  which  he  received  with 
much  unmistakable  surprise  and  wonder,  that  the  landlord, 
who,  like  most  of  the  Berganton  folk,  had  suspected  him  of 
some  connection  with  their  departure,  was  constrained  to 
believe  him  innocent. 

There  being  now  nothing  to  detain  him  in  Berganton, 
he  ordered  his  horse  for  an  immediate  return  to  Savalla. 
First,  however,  he  went  to  the  breakfast-room,  but  found 
that  he  was  unable  to  cat ;  food  was  like  ashes  in  his  mouth  ; 
the  most  that  he  could  do  was  to  swallow  a  cup  of  coffee. 

That  ride  to  Savalla  remained  always  a  horrible  night 
mare  in  his  memory.  Sometimes  he  was  riding  through 
the  darkness  of  infinite  space  ;  sometimes  through  whirl 
ing  trees,  over  a  road  heaving  as  with  the  throes  of  an 
earthquake,  and  seemingly  interminable.  Now  and  then,  his 
senses  seemed  slipping  entirely  from  his  grasp,  and  were 
only  dragged  back  by  the  convulsive  effort  of  an  iron  will. 
Reaching  the  office  of  the  Pulaski  House,  where  he  was 
well  known,  he  just  managed  to  hold  them  together  long 


354:  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

enough  to  scratch  a  few  lines  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  give 
directions  for  its  delivery.  Then,  with  a  wan  smile  of 
relief,  he  relaxed  his  hold,  and  let  them  slide  swiftly  away 
into  oblivion. 

Two  days  later,  Doctor  Trubie,  arriving  at  the  same 
hotel,  according  to  previous  agreement,  was  met  by  the 
information  that  Mr.  Arling  was  lying  dangerously  ill  with 
that  fever  which  guards,  like  a  flaming  sword,  the  gates  of 
the  sunny  South ;  and  the  letter  was  put  into  his  hands. 
Tearing  it  open,  he  read : — 

"  I  charge  you,  by  everything  that  is  sacred,  to  take  no 
further  step  in  the  business  that  brings  you  here,  until  I 
recover,  and  we  can  consult  together ;  and,  if  I  die,  I 
charge  yo-i,  as  you  would  have  me  rest  quietly  in  my 
grave,  to  take  none  at  all.  BEEGAN." 

Doctor  Trubie  flung  down  the  letter  with  a  most  dis 
gusted  face.  "  To  think  that  Roath  should  escape  me  thus  ! " 
he  exclaimed,  discontentedly.  "  That  is,  to  be  sure,  if 
Bergan  does  not  recover.  He  shall  recover !  " 

Upstairs  he  sprang,  two  steps  at  a  time.  But,  once  in 
Bergan's  chamber,  his  heart  failed  him.  The  patient  lay 
in  a  stupor  that  seemed  very  near  of  kin  to  death.  Two 
physicians  stood  by  the  bed,  and  the  first  words  that  met 
his  ear  were, — "  No  hope." 


PART  FOURTH. 

A  NEW  FIELD. 


ALIVE   IN   FAMINE. 


I)  AREL  Y  does  a  man  go  down  to  the  verge  of  the 
l\j  grave,  and  look  into  its  profound  and  pregnant 
depths,  without  carrying  from  henceforth  traces  of 
the  journey.  His  views  of  life  will  be  truer,  if  not  sadder, 
forever  afterward.  The  laws  of  moral  perspective,  though 
they  do  not  change,  will  be  better  understood  ;  so  that  ob 
jects  at  a  distance  are  no  longer  dwarfed  to  the  understand 
ing,  however  they  may  appear  to  the  eye.  Character 
becomes  the  central  "  point  of  sight,"  toward  which  duty 
continually  draws  converging  right  lines,  by  the  aid  of 
which  happiness,  fame,  and  wealth,  fall  into  their  pi'oper 
places,  and  assume  their  true  proportions. 

Bergan  Arling  was  seated  in  his  office  at  Savalla.  At 
first  sight,  it  might  seem  that  he  was  little  changed,  but  a 
closer  inspection  would  have  awakened  some  surprise  that 
the  lapse  of  little  more  than  a  year  could  have  changed  him 
so  much.  The  youthfulness  had  gone  out  of  his  face, — that 
half-eager,  half-wistful  look  which  says  so  plainly,  "  The 
world  is  all  before  me,  where  to  choose  ;  " — it  was  now  the 
face  of  a  man  among  men,  who  had  found  his  place  and  his 
work,  who  had  grappled  with  many  hard  problems,  and 
solved  some,  who  was  accustomed  to  deal  with  serious  sub- 


356  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   COEDS. 

jects  in  a  serious  way,  and  who  had  withal,  a  definite  rule 
and  object  of  life.  In  short,  it  was  informed  with  a  posi 
tive  and  noble  individuality,  born  out  of  suffering,  and  not 
yet  wholly  oblivious  of  the  pangs  that  had  given  it  birth, 
but  certain,  in  good  time,  to  attain  to  the  fulness  of  an  inward 
joy,  which,  having  a  deep  wellspring  of  its  own,  would  be 
little  dependent  upon  the  ebb  and  flow  of  outward  circum 
stance. 

Nor  had  the  year  been  fruitless  of  exterior  results. 
Scarcely  had  Bergan  mastered  the  details  of  his  new  office, 
when  his  partner,  Mr.  Youle,  was  taken  sick,  and  he  was 
left  to  conduct  its  affairs  pretty  much  alone.  Several  cases 
of  importance  being  in  hand,  he  was  thus  afforded  a  rare 
opportunity  to  achieve  a  rapid  fame.  His  reputation 
already  overshadowed  that  of  many  of  his  legal  brethren 
who  had  greatly  the  advantage  of  him  in  years  and  experi 
ence. 

From  the  first,  he  had  made  it  an  invariable  rule  never 
to  speak  against  tis  clear  convictions  of  right  ;  and  it  was 
curious  to  observe  what  an  influence  the  knowledge  of  this 
fact  was  beginning  to  have  upon  the  community.  The  cause 
which  he  embraced,  however  hopeless  its  aspect,  always 
commanded  a  degi-ee  of  respect,  and  was  watched  with  a 
certain  reservation  of  judgment,  in  consideration  of  his 
acknowledged  integrity  of  purpose  ;  while,  as  a  necessary 
sequence  (from  which  Bergan,  in  his  humility,  would  have 
been  glad  to  escape),  the  cause  which  he  was  understood  to 
have  declined  was  apt  to  be  pronounced  suspicious  in  the 
popular  judgment,  however  it  might  go  in  the  courts. 
So  certain  is  the  talent  which  is  known  to  be  conjoined  with 
a  pure  aim  and  an  upright  life,  to  win,  soon  or  late,  high 
place  and  strong  influence,  even  in  a  world  that  disallows 
its  very  principle  of  being!  The  visible  fruits  of  righteous 
ness  commend  themselves  to  :ill  lips,  whatever  is  thought  of 
the  root  from  whence  they  spring. 

Bergan's  desk  was  littered  with  papers,  but  his  eyes 


ALIVE    IN   FAMINE.  357 

were  ^tudying  only  the  opposite  wall,  half  in  abstraction, 
half  in  perplexity.  Nor  did  their  expression  alter  much 
when  the  door  opened,  and  he  rose  to  greet  Mr.  Youle,  who 
came  in  slowly  and  feebly,  leaning  on  a  cane.  He  was  of 
medium  height,  with  gray  hair,  a  thin  face,  and  a  kindly 
blue  eye  ;  and  it  was  easy  to  see,  was  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  his  talented  young  partner.  No  room  in  that  ripe  in 
tellect  and  gentle  nature  for  so  ignoble  a  passion  as  jeal 
ousy  ! 

"  There,  that  will  do,  Arling,"  he  said,  humorously,  when 
Bergan  had  helped  him  carefully  to  a  chair ;  "  the  old 
gentleman  is  as  comfortable  as  he's  likely  to  be, — or  de 
serves  to  be,  for  that  matter.  Well,  how  goes  on  our 
case  ?  " 

Bergan  shook  his  head,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Very 
badly,  I  should  say, — if  anything  can  be  said  to  go  badly, 
which  is  so  entirely  in  the  hands  of  Providence.  I  confess 
that  I  can  make  nothing  of  it." 

Mr.  Youle  looked  grave.  "  I  warned  you  in  the  begin 
ning,"  said  he,  "  that  there  was  not  a  reasonable  peg  to  hang 
a  line  of  defence  on." 

"  But  I  believe  the  man  to  be  innocent,"  rejoined  Ber 
gan.  "  And,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  '  I  warned  you,  in  the 
beginning,'  that  I  should  never  advocate  a  cause  which 
seemed  to  be  unrighteous,  nor  refuse  one  that  seemed  to  be 
just,  though  the  one  should  offer  me  a  fortune  in  fees,  and 
the  other  not  a  cent." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  replied  Mr.  Youle.  "  And  I  must 
admit  that  your  two  rules  have  worked  miraculously  well 
thus  far  ;  we  have  lost  but  one  case,  I  believe,  since  you 
came  into  the  office.  Well,  well,  such  a  vein  of  good  luck 
cannot  be  expected  to  last  forever, — after  the  nugget,  the 
rock  or  the  sand.  But  I  don't  see  how  it  is  that  you  are  so 
strongly  persuaded  of  Unwick's  innocence." 

"  You  would  easily  understand,  if  you  had  looked  in 
to  his  face  once  ;  it  is  a  clean  passport  to  confidence. 


358  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

Besides,  there  is  the  unvarying  testimony  of  his  past  life, 
as  set  forth  by  everybody  that  knows  him, — sober,  honest, 
frank,  kind,  religious,  everything  that  is  desirable.  A  man 
does  not  become  a  murderer  in  cold  blood,  all  at  once ;  he 
has  to  prepare  himself  for  it  by  vice,  or  intemperance,  or  a 
course  of  hard,  cold,  selfish  living.  There  is  always  a 
downward  slope,  before  the  final  plunge." 

"  Granted  ;  but  I  doubt  if  you  can  make  the  jury  see 
it  clearly  enough  to  ground  a  verdict  of  acquittal  upon  it, 
in  the  face  of  all  that  terribly  strong  circumstantial  evi 
dence." 

Bergan  mused  for  a  little  time  without  answering.  "  I 
cannot  rid  myself,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  of  a  conviction 
that  that  son  of  the  murdered  man  could  throw  some  light 
on  the  subject,  if  he  chose." 

Mr.  Youle  stared.  "I  did  not  know  that  he  had  been 
suspected,  for  a  moment,"  said  he. 

"  Nor  has  he.  But  he  is  the  one  who  profits  most  by 
the  murder,  since  he  is  heir-at-law.  And  what  a  reckless 
and  disobedient  youth  he  has  been  ! — always  on  bad  terms 
with  his  father,  when  he  was  at  home,  and  doing  nothing 
but  write  letters  for  money,  while  he  was  in  Europe.  By 
the  way,  I  can't  help  wondering  if  he  was  in  Europe,  all 
this  past  year;  though  really,  I  don't  know  why  I  should 
doubt  it.  Well," — rising  and  looking  at  his  watch, — "  it  is 
time  to  go  to  court." 

"And,  as  I  am  feeling  better  to-day,  I  think  I'll  go 
along,"  said  Mr.  Youle.  "  Since  you  seem  to  think  that 
Providence  has  the  case  very  specially  in  His  hands, — in 
deed,  I  don't  mean  it  irreverently, — I'd  like  to  see  how  He 
conducts  it." 

"  I  am  glad  to  think  that  He  is  conducting  it,"  said 
Bergan,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  else  I  should  be  utterly  discour 
aged." 

The  trial  dragged  its  slow  length  through  the  greater 
part  of  the  morning,  without  any  incident  of  interest.  One 


ALIVE    IN   FAMINE.  359 

witness  after  another  came  upon  the  stand,  was  examined, 
and  dismissed;  each  adding  something  to  the  weight  of 
evidence  against  the  prisoner,  Unwick.  The  son  of  the 
murdered  man,  Varley  by  name,  sat  nearly  opposite  to 
Bergan,  by  the  side  of  the  prosecuting  attorney  ;  and  being 
of  a  restless  temperament,  as  well  as  gifted  with  extraordi 
nary  facility  in  the  use  of  a  pencil,  he  busied  himself,  as  he 
listened  to  the  monotonous  drone  of  a  witness,  with  me 
chanically  sketching  the  faces  of  the  witnesses  or  the  spec 
tators,  or  scenes  and  places  that  he  had  visited,  recalled  to 
his  mind  by  the  evidence,  or  by  his  own  roving  thoughts. 
One  of  these  caught  Bergan's  eye,  and  Tie  furtively  watched 
its  progress,  while  seeming  to  be  occupied  with  his  papers. 
When  finished,  it  was  carelessly  dropped  on  the  floor,  like 
those  which  had  preceded  it ;  and  the  skilful  pencil  quickly 
set  to  work  on  a  new  subject.  In  a  moment  or  two,  Bergan 
dropped  one  of  his  papers,  in  a  way  to  take  it  well  under  the 
table,  and  immediately  stooped  to  get  it.  When  he  reap 
peared,  a  close  observer  might  have  noticed  that  the  look 
of  patient  watchfulness,  which  his  face  had  worn  so  long, 
was  gone ;  but  the  keenest  eyes  would  have  been  puzzled 
to  read  his  present  expression.  Was  it  triumph,  or  thank 
fulness,  or  perplexity,  or  a  mixture  of  all  ? 

Mr.  Varley  was  now  put  upon  the  stand,  to  furnish 
some  small  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence  that  the  prosecu 
tion  was  drawing  so  skilfully  around  the  prisoner.  The 
little  that  he  was  desired  to  say  being  said,  the  opposing 
counsel  politely  inquired  if  Mr.  Ariing  had  any  questions 
to  ask. 

"  One  or  two,  if  you  please,"  answered  Bergan,  quietly; 
and  rising,  and  turning  toward  the  witness,  he  said : — 

"  I  believe  you  stated,  Mr.  Varley,  that  you  had  never 
seen  the  place  where  your  father  died  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  bought  it,  and  removed  to  it  after  I  went 
abroad." 

;c  Have  you  visited  it,  since  your  return  ?  " 


360  HOLDEN    WITH    TilE    CORDS. 

"  I  have  not.  I  only  got  here  just  before  the  commence 
ment  of  this  trial,  and  I  have  been  kept  too  busy  since  to 
find  time  for  the  trip." 

"  Then  you  have  never  seen  the  room  where  your 
father  came  to  his  death  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  returned  the  witness,  beginning  to 
look  a  little  startled  by  this  unaccountable  persistency. 

"Has  it  ever  been  very  minutely  described  to  you?" 

Varley  hesitated ; — -more,  it  was  evident,  to  consider 
what  could  be  the  possible  drift  of  the  question,  than  to 
search  his  memory  for  a  correct  answer.  He  finally  ven 
tured  to  say  that  to  the  best  of  his  recollection  he  had 
been  favored  with  no  such  description. 

"According  to  my  notes  of  the  evidence  taken  during 
this  trial,"  pursued  Bergan,  "  the  only  facts  about  the  room 
brought  out  with  much  distinctness,  were  the  positions  of 
the  bedstead  and  the  window  near  it ; — does  your  memory 
serve  you  with  any  additional  particulars  ?" 

"  N — o,"  faltered  the  witness,  with  symptoms  of  grow 
ing  uneasiness. 

"  Then,"  said  Bergan,  with  very  distinct  and  deliberate 
emphasis,  "  if,  as  you  say,  you  never  have  seen  this  room, 
nor  heard  it  minutely  described,  how  is  it  that  you  have 
been  able  to  make  so  accurate  a  representation  of  it  as  this 
which  I  hold  in  my  hand  ?  " 

There  was  a  breathless  silence,  while  Bergan  held  up  a 
small,  but  distinct,  pencil  sketch  to  the  view  of  the  pale 
and  trembling  witness. 

"  This  sketch,"  continued  Bergan,  after  waiting  a  few 
moments  for  the  answer  that  did  not  come,  "  as  I  can  vouch, 
and  as  many  of  these  witnesses  can  testify,  is  an  exact  rep 
resentation  of  the  room  in  question,  as  it  would  appear 
from  the  head  of  the  bedstead; — the  very  spot  in  which,  it 
will  be  remembered,  the  prosecution  has  assumed  that  the 
murderer  must  have  been  concealed  ;  and  where,  doubtless, 
he  remained  long  enough  to  fix  all  the  details  of  this  sketch 


ALIVE   IN    FAMINE.  361 

in  his  memory.  Here  is  the  peculiar  double  window,  facing 
the  east,  and  wreathed  round  with  vines,  which  is  so  marked 
a  featui'e  of  the  room,  yet  which  there  has  been  no  need  to 
mention,  during  this  trial,  except  in  the  most  casual  way; 
and  here,  on  the  right,  are  the  round  table  and  large  arm 
chair,  where  Mr.  Varlcy  wrote,  and,  on  the  left,  an  old- 
fashioned  chest  of  drawers,  with  a  plaster  cast  of  Shakes 
peare  on  top ; — all  in  their  proper  places,  just  as  I  saw 
them  when  I  visited  the  room,  after  undertaking  the  defence 
of  this  case.  How  is  it,  I  ask  again,"  he  went  on,  turning 
to  the  witness,  "  how  is  it  that  you  could  make  this  sketch, 
if  you  never  saw  the  room  ?  " 

"  Who  says  he  made  it  ?  "  demanded  the  opposing  coun 
sel,  sharply. 

"  I  say  it,"  calmly  replied  Bergan.  "  I  saw  him  draw 
it,  not  half  an  hour  ago,  on  a  piece  of  the  same  paper  that 
you  are  using  for  your  notes,  as  you  can  satisfy  yourself,  if 
you  choose  to  compare  them.  Besides,"  he  added,  looking 
keenly  at  the  witness,  "  Mr.  Yarley  will  not  deny  that  he 
made  it." 

No,  plainly  he  would  not,  for  he  was  physically  incapable 
of  speech.  He  was  shivering  as  with  an  ague  fit,  his  knees 
knocked  together,  his  lips  trembled  convulsively,  but  no  ar 
ticulate  sound  came  forth.  In  another  moment,  he  fell  for 
ward  heavily  on  the  rail  that  divided  the  witness-stand  from 
the  lawyers'  table. 

"  Carry  him  out !  Give  him  air !  "  cried  a  dozen  voices ; 
"  he  has  fainted." 

"Yes,  carry  him  out,"  said  Bergan  gravely,  and  not 
without  a  touch  of  compassion  in  his  voice  ;  "  since  he  is  not 
on  trial,  we  have  no  further  need  of  him.  But  let  me  rec 
ommend  that  he  be  not  lost  sight  of,  till  this  present  trial 
is  over." 

And  it  was  over  very  quickly.     The  influence  of  the 
scene  just  witnessed  was  not  to  be  ignored  nor  overcome. 
Prosecution  and  defence  were  alike  glad  to  waste  no  time 
16 


362  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

on  the  road  to  a  foregone  conclusion.  The  summing  up, 
on  both  sides,  was  brief  almost  beyond  precedent,  the  judge's 
charge  was  correspondingly  so,  and  the  jury  returned  a  ver 
dict  of  "  Not  Guilty,"  without  leaving  their  seats. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Youle,  when  he  and  Bergan 
had  finally  succeeded  in  escaping  from  the  gratitude  of 
Unwick,  and  the  congratulations  of  friends.  "  I  must  Bay, 
I  never  saw  such  a  sudden  turn  of  events  as  that,  in  all  my 
legal  experience."  And  after  a  moment,  he  added,  with 
unusual  gravity,  "  It  does  seem  as  if  the  blessing  of  God 
were  with  you,  and  your  two  rules,  Arling." 

"I  hope  so,"  rejoined  Bergan,  quietly,  "for  I  have 
learned  that  I  can  do  nothing  worth  doing,  without 
it." 

"I  really  think,"  mused  Mr.  Youle,  "if  I  were  to  live 
my  life  over  again,  I  would  adopt  your  plan.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  have  helped  to  save  many  a  scoundrel  from  deserved 
punishment,  as  well  as  to  rob  an  honest  man,  now  and  then, 
of  his  just  rights  ;  and  when  one  comes  to  look  back  on 
it  all,  from  the  stand-point  of  my  age,  it  does  seem  as  if  one 
might  have  been  in  better  business.  Yes,  I  believe  you  are 
right,  Arling  ;  and  you  have  my  cordial  consent  from  this 
time  forth,  to  keep  on  as  you  have  begun.  I  confess  I 
thought  it  was  a  freak,  a  whim  at  first,  that  would  soon  give 
way  to  the  temptations — what  we  usually  call  the  necessities 
— of  actual,  steady  practice  ;  but  I  see  that  you  have  a  solid 
principle  at  the  bottom. which  there's  no  shaking.  Never 
theless,  Arling,  you  can't  expect  that  your  judgment  is  going 
to  be  infallible, — that  you  will  never  mistake  the  guilty  man 
for  the  innocent  one,  and  vice  versa." 

k<  I  do  not  expect  it,"  answered  Bergan,  seriously.  -  "  Er 
rors  in  judgment,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  I  shall  make, 
being  mortal ;  but  errors  in  will,  I  mean  to  do  my  best,  witli 
God's  help,  to  avoid." 

A  plain  carriage,  with  a  trim  African  on  the  box,  was 


ALIVE   IN    FAMINE.  363 

in  waiting  when  the  two  gentlemen  descended  the  court 
house  steps. 

"  Come,  Arling,"  said  Mr.  Youle,  in  a  tone  of  command 
rather  than  invitation,  "  go  home  and  dine  with  me  ;  there 
are  several  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

Bergan  hesitated  ;  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  plan  did 
not  commend  itself  to  his  taste. 

"  Never  rack  your  brain  for  excuses ;  they  won't 
serve,"  pursued  Mr.  Youle,  with  good-natured  peremptorl 
ness  ;  "  I  mean  to  take  you  with  me,  whether  you  will  or 
no.  It  is  time  for  you  to  overcome  your  morbid  dislike  of 
society  ;  besides,  you  will  see  no  one  but  my  own  family." 

Thus  urged,  Bergan  could  only  take  a  seat  in  the 
carriage,  and  be  driven  off ;  albeit,  in  direct  contravention 
of  his  inclinations  and  habits.  For,  although,  on  coming 
back  to  life  and  health  from  the  borders  of  death,  he  had 
been  quick  to  hear,  and  to  heed,  the  plain,  stern  call  of 
Duty  to  work  while  it  is  yet  day,  there  had  been  no  gracious 
response  in  his  heart,  as  yet,  to  that  softer  voice  wherewith 
she  enjoins  brotherly  kindness,  as  well  in  gentle,  social  cour 
tesies  and  amenities  as  in  deeds  of  benevolence.  Life  had 
become  too  serious  a  thing,  he  thought,  to  be  wasted  in 
trifles  such  as  these.  Busy  at  the  centre  of  the  circle,  he  had 
lost  sight  of  the  circumference  ;  intent  upon  the  weightier 
matters  of  the  law,  he  forgot  the  tithes  of  mint,  anise 
and  cummin, which  yet,  said  the  Master,  ought  not  to  be 
left  undone.  But  it  was  a  natural  mistake,  under  the  cir 
cumstances  ;  and  there  was  still  time  for  him  to  learn  that, 
in  every  well-ordered  life,  there  is  a  place  for  little  things, — • 
little  courtesies,  little  duties,  little  friends. 


IL 

NEW   ACQUAINTANCES. 

"  ~T~TTELL,  Coralie,"  said  Mr.  Youle,  an  hour  later,  as 

V  V       he  preceded  Bergan  into  the  drawing-room  of 
the  fine  old  family  mansion  that  had  been  the 
home   of   the  Youles   for  many  years,    "bring   out  your 
laurels,  I  have  brought  you  a  conquering  hero." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  Mr.  Arling ;  he  is  very  welcome."  And 
Coralie,  who  had  seen  Bergan  two  or  three  times  in  her 
father's  office,  greeted  him  with  marked  coi'diality,  and 
gave  him  her  small,  soft  hand. 

It  is  odd  how  strong  a  resemblance  can  co-exist  with 
perfect  dissimilarity  of  features  and  complexion.  Though 
she  was  very  lovely — this  Coralie  Youle — and  with  a 
blithesome  and  bewitching  loveliness  all  her  own,  Bergan 
had  never  been  able  to  look  upon  her,  nor  could  he  see  her 
now,  without  some  deep,  keen  pain,  as  from  an  unhealed 
wound.  There  were  tones  in  her  voice  which  reminded 
him  of  one  that  he  would  hear  no  more ;  and  she  had  ways 
and  gestui'es  which  continually  awakened  memories  not  yet 
softened  by  distance  into  lines  and  tints  of  perfect  purity 
and  peace.  And  yet,  what  an  irresistible,  subtle  charm  in 
her  was  this  very  power  to  pain  him ! 

"  You  said  that  Mr.  Arling  was  a  conquering  hero, 
papa,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Mr.  Youle.  "Have  you 
gained  the  case,  then,  after  all?  That  is  wonderful  indeed! 
How  did  it  happen  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Nothing  loath,  Mr.  Youle  gave  a  sufficiently  graphic 
account  of  the  scene  in  the  court-room,  taking  occasion  to 


NEW    ACQUAINTANCES.  365 

lavish  no  small  amount  of  hearty  encomium  upon  Bergan's 
share  in  it. 

"  How  I  wish  1  could  have  been  there  to  see ! "  ex 
claimed  Coralie,  when  the  recital  was  ended,  her  cheeks 
glowing  with  sympathetic  excitement ;  "  it  sounds  like  a 
chapter  out  of  a  novel,  rather  than  a  bit  of  real  life.  Mr. 
Arling  does,  in  truth,  deserve  the  laurels  of  victory  ;  and,  by 
the  way — Diva  !  where  are  you  ? — here  is  some  one  who  is 
worthy  to  give  them  to  him." 

No  one  had  noticed,  until  now,  that  a  lady  was  stand 
ing  in  the  window,  half  concealed  by  the  curtain.  But,  as 
she  came  forward  everything  else  seemed  to  fade  out  of 
sight,  for  the  moment,  and  leave  only  her,  standing  there 
alone  in  the  clear,  cold  light  of  her  marvellous  beauty. 

Before  this,  Bergan's  ideal  of  proud  and  queenly  beauty 
had  been  painted  with  dark  hair  and  eyes ;  he  now  saw 
reason  to  change  it  at  once  and  forever.  The  lady  was  the 
most  perfect  blonde  that  he  had  ever  seen.  Her  hair  was 
of  the  palest  brown,  with  only  a  faint  gold  light  in  it ;  her 
eyes  were  blue  or  gray,  he  could  not  tell  which,  at  the  mo 
ment,  nor  would  he  have  been  less  puzzled  after  a  much 
longer  acquaintance ;  and  her  complexion  was  fair  and 
colorless,  almost,  as  marble ;  yet  never  had  he  beheld  any 
thing  so  stately,  so  proud,  so  calm,-  and — it  must 'needs  be 
said — so  cold.  She  came  forth  from  the  shadow  of  the 
curtain  as  Galatea  might  have  done,  had  she  been  endowed 
with  life  only,  not  with  love. 

Worthy  she  might  be  to  crown  a  victor,  in  right  of  her 
queenlincss,  but  the  laurels  from  her  hands,  Bergan  thought, 
would  be  very  chill ! 

"  Miss  Thane  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Youle,  "  why  this  is  a 
surprise,  and  a  most  pleasant  one.  It  is  seldom  that  you 
allow  any  of  us  to  see  you  here,  except  Coralie." 

"  Because  my  visits  are  usually  morning  visits,"  replied 
Miss  Thane,  in  a  low,  yet  singularly  musical  monotone, 
that  harmonized  perfectly  with  her  face,  "  when  I  know 


3GG  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORPS. 

that  you  arc  sure  to  be  better  engaged  than  in  gossipping 
with  me." 

Mr.  Youle  slightly  raised  his  eyebrows,  in  good-humored 
recognition  of  the  possibly  careless,  possibly  studied,  am 
biguity  of  this  explanation ;  but  he  let  it  pass  without 
comment,  as  Coralie  hastened  to  present  her  guests  to  each 
other. 

Bergan  bowed  low,  with  the  graceful  deference  which 
always  marked  his  bearing  toward  women ;  but  Miss  Thane 
was  guilty  of  no  waste  of  civility.  She  slightly  inclined 
her  head,  vouchsafed  him  a  single  glance  out  of  her  won 
drous  eyes,  and  coolly  turned  back  to  the  window,  to  lose 
herself,  a  moment  after,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction. 

Miss  Youle — Mr.  Youle's  maiden  sister,  and  the  mis 
tress  of  his  household  since  his  wife's  death,  many  years 
ago — now  appeared,  clad  in  a  thick,  black  silk  that  rustled 
like  a  field  of  corn  in  the  wind,  and  dropped  Bergan  her 
stately,  old-time  courtesy.  And  Coralie  immediately  be 
gan  to  repeat  the  story  of  the  trial  to  her,  aided  and  abet 
ted  by  Mr.  Youle ;  from  which  embarrassing  iteration 
Bergan  would  have  been  glad  to  escape,  by  joining  Miss 
Thane  at  her  window,  had  not  her  manner  seemed  to  indi 
cate  so  clearly  that  she  was  amply  sufficient  to  herself,  and 
did  not  care  to  be  anything  to  anybody  else.  But  the 
eloquence  of  Coralie  and  Mr.  Youle  finally  came  to  a 
pause,  if  not  to  an  end ;  Miss  Thane  roused  from  her  ab 
straction  ;  and  the  party  went  down  to  dinner. 

Bergan  was  inclined  to  be  somewhat  silent,  at  first. 
Lonely  dweller  in  offices,  hotels,  and  restaurants,  that  he 
had  been,  for  the  year  past,  he  had  half  lost  the  habit  of 
conversation ;  besides,  Coralie's  tones  continually  s\vept 
the  chords  of  association  in  a  way  to  thrill  him  with  a 
sombre  mixture  of  pain  and  pleasure,  and  keep  his  mind 
confusedly  vibrating  between  the  present  and  the  past. 
But  he  was  too  conscientiously  courteous  to  allow  himself 
long  to  remain  a  dead  weight  upon  his  hosts;  and,  though 


NEW   ACQUAINTANCES.  367 

it  cost  him  an  effort,  he  was  soon  talking  with  the  old  ease 
and  fluency,  enriched  by  a  profounder  thoughtfulness,  and 
a  subtler  play  of  imagination.  In  his  hands,  commonplace 
subjects  discovered  hidden  treasures ;  while  loftier  themes 
gleamed  and  glowed  like  stained  windows  seen  against  a 
golden  western  sky.  Miss  Thane  lost  something  of  her 
apathetic  manner,  after  awhile,  and  paid  him  the  compliment 
of  listening  with  attention,  if  not  with  interest.  And  op 
posite  to  him  was  Coralie's  listening,  speaking  face,  full  of 
such  quick  comprehension  and  sympathy,  that  he  could 
scarcely  help  being  beguiled  into  a  fuller,  freer  expression 
of  thought,  opinion,  and  feeling,  than  he  would  have  be 
lieved  possible,  an  hour  before. 

But  was  it  not  Miss  Thane's  subtle  management,  rather 
than  Coralie's  sympathy,  which  finally  led  the  talk  into  the 
sombre  channels  dug  by  human  disappointments,  losses, 
and  failures,  and  kept  it  there  until  they  had  returned  to 
the  drawing-room  ?  Then  Bergan  said,  by  way  of  dismiss 
ing  the  subject : — "  But  all  these  things  are  to  be  looked  at 
as  materials,  not  results.  Happy  the  prophetic  vision 
which  sees  the  perfect  form  of  the  Future  rising  from  the 
chaos  of  past  and  present ! — as  a  sculptor  sees  before  him, 
not  a  rough  block  of  marble,  but  the  finished  statue, — an 
architect,  not  shapeless  heaps  of  stone  and  mortar,  but  the 
grand  completed  temple." 

"  Let  him  but  look  far  enough,"  rejoined  Miss  Thane, 
"  and  he  can  behold  a  sadder  phase, — the  statue  broken  and 
defaced,  the  temple  overthrown  and  prostrate;  once  more  a 
rough  block  of  marble,  and  shapeless  heaps  of  stone." 

"  Nay,"  replied  Bei-gan,  "  it  is  at  that  very  point  that 
Prophecy  should  spread  her  whitest  wings,  and  soar  to  the 
temple  not  made  with  hands,  and  the  jewelled  walls  of  the 
city  let  down  from  the  clouds.  Miss  Coralie,"  he  con 
tinued,  glancing  at  the  open  piano,  "  do  you  sing  ?  " 

"  Not  much ;  I  play  mostly.  But  Miss  Thane  does. 
Dear  Diva,  won't  you  sing  for  us  ?  " 


368  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

Miss  Thane  looked  at  Bergan,  but  lie  said  nothing.  If 
ho  had  added  a  word  to  Coralie's  entreaty,  the  chances  are 
that  she  would  not  have  sung.  But  since  she  had  only 
Coralie  to  oblige — Coralie,  who  alone  seemed  to  have 
found  the  deep  way  to  her  heart,  and  to  whom  she  rarely 
refused  anything — she  went  straight  to  th»)  piano,  took  the 
first  music  that  presented  itself,  which  happened  to  be  Ros 
sini's  "  Cujus  Animam,"  and  began  to  sing,  not  only  with 
perfect  method — that  might  have  been  expected — but  with 
exquisite  feeling.  Her  voice  was  a  rich  contralto,  deep 
and  broad  as  a  river  flowing  to  the  sea,  and  bearing  the 
listener  whither  it  pleased.  There  were  tears  in  the  eyes 
of  her  auditors,  when  she  had  finished,  and  would  have 
been,  doubtless,  had  she  sung  anything  else,  for  the  qual 
ity  of  her  voice  touched  that  point  of  perfection,  which,  in 
this  world,  gives  a  pleasure  closely  akin  to  pain. 

She  waited  a  moment,  biit  no  one  spoke  ;  then  she  put 
her  fingei*s  again  on  the  keys,  and,  looking  far  out  into  the 
evening  dusk,  sang  a  dismal,  hopeless  dirge,  which  Bergan 
felt  intuitively  to  be  her  own  ;  and  Avhich  wrung  his  heart 
with  passionate  longing  and  pain.  She  would  sing  no  more. 

Yet  no  one  could  talk  after  those  heartbreaking  strains. 
So  Bergan  quietly  took  his  leave. 

Coralie  wound  her  arm  round  her  friend's  waist,  and 
drew  her  to  the  window,  to  watch  him  down  the  street. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  think — that  he  has  a  genius  for  conversation,"  re 
plied  Miss  Thane,  coolly. 

"  Oh,  Diva,  you  know  that  is  not  what  I  mean  !  How 
do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  I  like  no  one — but  you.  I  think  I  might  respect  him 
in  time.  As  for  you,  little  one,  take  care  you  do  not  like 
him  too  well." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Coralie,  blushing. 

"  Because  he  has  buried  his  heart — the  fecst  part  of  it — 
in  somebody's  grave." 


III. 


FAR  VIEW. 

DIVA  THANE,  it  is  perhaps  needless  to  say,  was  a 
child  of  the  North.  Her  peculiar  type  of  beauty 
blossoms  only  out  of  soil,  which,  for  half  the  year, 
withdraws  its  warmth  into  its  deep  heart,  and  wraps  itself 
in  a  chill,  white  robe  of  snow.  She  had  made  her  appear 
ance  in  Savalla,  about  a  twelvemonth  before,  unheralded 
and  unknown,  had  rented  the  parlor  of  a  decayed  aristo 
cratic  mansion  as  a  studio,  and  had  tacked  on  the  door  a 
card  signifying  to  the  public  that  she  was  a  painter  in  oils. 
She  had  thenceforth  been  an  example  of  that  freedom  and 
independence  of  life  which  Art  makes  possible  for  its  vota 
ries,  of  either  sex,  as  a  compensation,  in  some  sort,  for  the 
sacrifices  that- they  are  bound  to  make  to  her. 

It  soon  became  known  that  the  Youles  endorsed  Miss 
Thane  to  the  fullest  extent,  both  socially  and  financially ; 
else  society  might  have  given  her  a  cool  reception.  But  it 
could  scarcely,  in  its  haughtiest  mood,  have  meted  out  to 
her  a  fuller  measure  of  scornful  indifference  than  she  ac 
corded  to  it,  when,  in  due  time,  it  made  up  its  mind  to  hold 
out  a  condescending  hand  to  her.  She  declined  its  invita 
tions,  she  took  no  notice  of  its  calls,  she  would  none  of  its 
patronage.  Just  in  proportion  as  it  grew  more  eager, 
piqued  by  her  indifference,  and  curious  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  which  surrounded  her,  she  became  colder  and  more 
distant.  Finally,  society  was  compelled  to  understand  that 
the  sole  favor  which  she  would  accept  at  its  hands,  was 
forgetfulness  of  her  existence. 

Nor  was  the  public  treated  much  Letter,  in  her  capacity 
16* 


370  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

of  artist.  Visitors  at  her  studio  found  free  admission,  and 
opportunity  to  examine,  at  their  leisure,  the  pictures, 
sketches,  and  studies,  which  crowded  the  walls ;  but  rarely 
did  she  turn  from  her  easel,  to  give  them  more  than  the 
briefest  glimpse  of  her  statuesque  beauty,  or  the  most  con 
cise  of  answers  to  their  questions.  Generally,  she  found 
some  reason  for  declining  their  orders ;  and  fully  one  half 
of  the  pictures  on  her  walls  were  labelled,  "Not  to  be 
Sold,"  while  the  sale  of  the  remainder  was  plainly  a  matter 
of  the  profoundcst  indifference  to  her.  It  must  needs  bo 
inferred  that  she  had  means  of  subsistence  other  than  her 
art,  amply  sufficient  for  her  quiet,  inexpensive  mode  of 
life. 

Nevertheless,  she  worked  with  indefatigable  industry, 
as  well  as  undeniable  talent.  It*  her  pictures  evinced  some 
lack  of  technical  skill,  they  were  endued  with  a  force  and 
feeling  which  more  than  atoned  for  its  absence;  since  the 
one  would  address  itself  chiefly  to  connoisseurs,  while  the 
other  went  straight  to  the  universal  heart.  They  covered 
a  wide  range  of  subjects,  yet  a  profound  observer  would 
have  traced  a  certain  connection  and  sequence  in  them  all. 
The  earlier  and  cruder  efforts  of  her  pencil  were  pleasant 
outdoor  scenes, — children  wading  in  a  sunshine  brook,  farm 
youths  and  maidens  tossing  about  new-mown  hay,  and  vil 
lage  girls  dancing  under  wide-spreading  boughs, — scenes  so 
perfect  in  their  idealization  as  to  seem  familiar  to  every 
eye,  yet  never  without  that  inestimable  something  added 
or  eliminated,  which  constitutes  the  difference  between  the 
picturesque  and  the  commonplace.  After  these  came  works 
not  only  marked  by  greater  skill  of  design  and  felicity  of 
color,  but  informed  with  a  deeper  feeling ; — yet  so  delicately 
indicated  that  none  but  the  finest  instinct  would  have  per 
ceived  how  softly  Love  illumined  the  landscape,  or  shone 
in  the  smile  of  the  youth,  or  looked  up  to  the  maiden  from 
her  own  downcast  eyes  reflected  in  the  water.  Then  came 
a  sudden  change, — pictures  and  sketches  wherein  the  artist's 


FAKVIEW.  371 

pencil  must  have  been  driven  by  some  terrible  intensity  of 
feeling,  to  have  wrought  with  such  sombre  power ; — such 
as  an  illimitable  desert,  with  a  man  riding  fast  toward  a 
wan,  setting  sun,  and  his  long,  backward  shadow  falling 
upon  a  woman's  outstretched,  yearning  hands, — or  the 
black  silhouette  of  a  drifting  and  dismantled  ship,  seen 
against  a  blood-red  moon,  setting  in  a  dun  and  angry  sea, 
— or  a  deep  and  dismal  cavern,  with  a  female  figure  lying 
bruised  and  broken  at  the  bottom  of  a  fissure,  and  a  man, 
also  torn  and  bleeding,  seen  at  the  end  of  a  long  vista, 
searching  for  what  he  will  not  find.  These  pictures  affected 
the  spectator  like  a  nightmare  ;  there  was  such  a  fell  shadow 
of  immitigable  fate  in  them  all,  and  so  notable  an  absence 
of  anything  like  hope  or  faith,  that  while  he  acknowledged 
their  power,  he  shuddered  at  their  spirit. 

Of  course,  Rumor  could  not  help  busying  herself  with 
a  subject  so  inviting  as  the  artist,  though  so  bare  of  definite 
results.  She  was  variously  reported  to  be  an  escaped  nun, 
a  bride  that  had  nearly  lost  her  life  at  the  hands  of  an 
insane  bridegroom,  a  widow — barely  one  month  a  wife — 
seeking  to  throw  off  an  intolerable  burden  of  grief  by  the 
help  of  new  scenes,  new  faces,  and  a  new  manner  of  life, 
and  an  heiress,  fled  from  the  importunities  of  harsh  guar 
dians  and  an  unwelcome  suitor.  It  will  serve  as  an  indica 
tion  of  the  occasional  correctness  of  the  popular  instinct, 
that  not  one  of  these  conjectures  cast  any  shadow  upon  the 
whiteness  of  her  fame.  Not  more  inevitably  did  her  face 
suggest  snow,  marble,  and  whatever  was  at  once  white  and 
cold,  than  her  demeanor  suggested  their  chill  purity. 
Moreover,  notwithstanding  that  she  led  so  unfettered  and 
independent  a  life,  as  compared  with  the  majority  of  her 
sex — dwelling  under  her  own  guardianship,  and  ordering 
her  day's  routine  to  her  own  liking — the  closest  scrutiny 
could  not  detect  anything  therein,  that  was  not  austere, 
lonely,  and  laborious  enough  to  suit  the  cell  of  an  anchor 
ite. 


372  1IOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

Yet,  though  there  was  so  little  in  her  way  of  living  to 
suggest  affluence,  it  soon  became  known  that  her  hands 
were  open,  and  her  purse  deep,  to  any  claim  upon  her  be 
nevolence.  While  it  never  appeared  that  she  set  herself  to 
seek  out  objects  of  charity,  to  such  as  came  to  her,  either 
in  person  or  by  proxy,  her  bounty  was  generally  far  in 
excess  of  the  demand.  The  only  grace  which  it  lacked, 
was  that  subtle  element  of  the  giver  in  the  gift,  which  im 
parts  a  sympathetic  warmth  to  the  silver  or  the  gold,  as  it 
is  dropped  in  the  outstretched  hand ;  augmenting,  to  a 
degree  incalculable  by  any  known  arithmetic,  its  power  of 
relieving  the  distressed  heart.  Though  Miss  Thane  gave 
generously,  she  gave  none  the  less  carelessly  and  coldly. 

The  only  person  whom  she  distinguished  by  any  mark 
of  affection,  or  measure  of  confidence,  was  Coralie  Youle. 
The  two  had  been  classmates  at  a  Northern  boarding- 
school,  where  the  native  girl  had  first  soothed  and  petted 
the  stranger  through  a  severe  attack  of  homesickness,  and 
then  had  been  devotedly  nursed,  in  her  turn,  during  a 
trying  dispensation  of  scarlet  fever ;  in  consequence  of 
which  a  friendship  of  more  than  ordinary  warmth  and 
tenacity  had  grown  \ip  between  them ;  manifesting  itself 
on  Coralie's  part,  by  a  half  worshipping  admiration,  and 
on  Diva's,  by  the  strong,  yearning  clasp  of  a  nature  that 
puts  forth  no  slender,  fragile  tendrils,  but  clings  only  in 
virtue  of  a  bend  or  coil  of  its  own  tough  fibre.  To  Coralie 
she  was  never  cold,  never  unresponsive ;  the  girl  knew  that 
there  was  no  veiled,  inner  chamber  of  her  friend's  heart  to 
which  she  had  not  some  time  penetrated,  and  which  she 
would  be  allowed  to  enter  again,  Avhenever  her  presence 
could  throw  one  ray  of  light  across  its  dusk.  With  that 
she  was  satisfied.  One  thing  the  two  possessed  in  common 
— the  most  absolute  trust  in  each  other. 

Still,  though  Diva  always  received  Coralie  at  her  studio 
with  deep-lit  eyes  of  welcome,  and  a  hand-clasp  into  which 
she  had  the  power  of  putting  more  tenderness  than  ordinary 


FAEVIEW.  373 

women  would  express  by  a  close  embrace,  and  though  she 
often  joined  her  in  long  walks  through  the  city  and  sub 
urbs,  it  was  rarely  that  she  could  be  persuaded  to  visit  her 
in  her  own  home.  If  she  did  so,  it  was  usually  at  an  hour 
when  she  would  Le  little  likely  to  meet  the  other  members 
of  the  family.  It  was  as  a  great  favor,  therefore,  that  she 
had  consented  to  stay  to  dinner,  on  the  day  when  Bergan 
had  met  her.  Nevertheless,  when  Coralie  really  set  her 
heart  upon  anything  in  her  friend's  power  to  give,  she 
always  gained  her  point.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  a 
few  weeks  later,  when  the  family  left  for  their  summer 
residence  of  Farview,  in  the  hill-region  of  the  State,  she 
carried  Diva  with  her,  for  a  visit  of  a  fortnight. 

Thither,  also,  after  awhile,  came  Bergan  ;  yielding  to 
Mr.  Youle's  entreaty  that  he  would  close  the  office,  for  at 
least  a  day  or  two,  and  give  himself  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
Secure  in  his  dearly  bought  acclimation,  he  had  not  pur 
posed  to  leave  the  city ;  anticipating  no  worse  effect  from  its 
summer  atmosphere  than  a  kind  of  dreamy  languor,  which, 
in  his  present  state  of  mind,  was  perhaps  more  to  be  desired 
than  any  bracing  of  his  energies.  Nevertheless,  he  had 
come  to  feel  for  Mr.  Youle  a  degree  of  filial  affection  ;  and  he 
would  not  pain  him  by  a  churlish  disregard  of  his  kindness. 

He  reached  Farview  about  sunset.  For  the  last  three 
or  four  miles,  he  had  seen  the  low  roof  and  broad  piazzas 
of  his  goal  looking  down  upon  him  from  the  hill  top,  as  he 
journeyed  up  the  valley,  and  Avhen  he  finally  stood  on  the 
green  and  flowery  lawn,  he  felt  as  if  his  own  being  were 
suddenly  and  sympathetically  magnified  an  hundred 
degrees,  so  wide  was  the  lovely  and  luxuriant  Southern 
landscape  outspread  before  him.  Field  and  forest  spotted 
it  with  various  verdure ;  a  river  drew  a  bright,  wavy  line 
aci-oss  it;  here,  the  yellow  sunshine  brought  out  clearly 
every  line  and  tint;  there,  the  clouds  dimmed  it  with 
patches  of  shadow;  and  all  around  was  a  massive  frame 
work  of  sunset-gilded  hills. 


374  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

Half  involuntarily,  Bergan  took  off  his  hat.  "  How 
good  arc  the  works  of  God,  and  how  harmonious  in  their 
relations  to  one  another,  when  we  get  high  enough  to  com 
mand  a  wide  view  of  them !  "  he  reverently  thought.  "  So, 
too,  I  doubt  not,  I  shall  find  it  with  the  dealings  of  His 
providence,  when  once  I  have  climbed  to  a  proper  stand 
point  whence  to  view  them  as  a  whole.  Till  then,  let  faith 
accept  the  truth  which  is  hidden  from  sight ! " 

A  larger  party  than  he  had  expected  to  see,  was  gathered 
in  the  dining-room.  A  legal  brother,  who  had  received  a 
general  invitation  from  Mr.  Youlc  to  visit  him  during  the 
Summer,  had  hit  upon  this  occasion  ;  one  planter  from  the 
neighborhood  was  present  by  appointment,  and  another  by 
accident ;  and  there  was  also  a  lady  friend  of  Miss  Youle, 
with  her  young  daughter,  Nina,  besides  Miss  Thane.  The 
latter  signified  her  remembrance  of  Bergan  by  a  cool  bow ; 
but  it  was  not  until  dinner  was  over,  and  the  evening 
tolerably  well  advanced,  that  he  found  himself  in  her  imme 
diate  vicinity.  Coralie  had  been  led  to  the  piano,  leaving 
him  in  a  somewhat  isolated  position,  near  one  of  the  long 
windows ;  and,  while  the  notes  of  a  fairy-like  waltz  seemed 
to  be  dropping  from  her  slender  fingers,  as  they  flitted  up 
and  down  the  ivory  key-board,  he  thought  lie  might  venture 
to  step  out  on  the  moonlit  piazza,  for  a  few  moments, 
without  being  missed.  Suiting  the  action  to  the  thought, 
he  discovered  that  Miss  Thane  had  made  her  escape  before 
him.  She  was  leaning  against  a  pillar,  looking  out  over 
the  moon-silvered  valley  with  a  weary  and  wistful  expres 
sion  scarcely  in  keeping  with  the  calm,  icy  indifference  of 
her  wonted  aspect.  With  a  brief  apology  for  interrupting 
her,  he  was  about  to  retire,  when  she  spoke,  in  a  tone  that 
seemed  to  accord  him  permission  to  stay  if  he  chose. 

"  Coralie's  music  sounds  sweeter  outside  than  Avi th 
in." 

Bergan  drew  ne;ir  to  her,  not  to  let  his  voice  penetrate 
to  the  parlor. 


FARVIEW.  375 

"  That  is  true,  I  suspect,  of  many  things  in  life.  To 
feel  their  full  sweetness,  one  must  get  a  little  out  of  their 
immediate  sphere." 

"  Is  that  true  of  persons,  also  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  keen 
glance. 

Some  moments  elapsed  before  Bergan  could  answer. 
Compelled  by  the  question  to  make  a  sudden,  rapid  investi 
gation  into  the  deeper  things  of  the  heart,  he  was  .con 
founded  at  the  unexpected  result.  Too  truthful,  however, 
to  attempt  to  hide  it,  he  finally  answered,  thoughtfully ; — 

"  In  some  measure,  I  think  it  is.  Miss  Thane,  did  you 
ever  experience  quite  that  deep  delight  in  the  presence  of  a 
friend,  which  you  sometimes  (please  remember,  I  say  only, 
sometimes)  derive  from  the  thought  of  him  or  her  in 
absence  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  the  question.  She  only  said,  in  a 
tone  of  cool  irony ; — "  You  do  not  natter  your  friends,  Mr. 
Arling."  But  in  another  moment,  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
sudden,  startling  intensity  of  passion  and  longing; — "Is 
there,  then,  nothing, — neither  love,  nor  friendship, — abso 
lutely  nothing,  which  answers  expectation,  and  satisfies 
desire  ?  Horrible,  horrible  thought !  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  replied  Bergan,  gently  ;  "  though 
I  confess  that  I  was  troubled,  at  first,  by  the  necessity  of 
answering  your  question  as  I  did.  But  I  now  recognize  the 
fact  thus  revealed  to  me  as  very  satisfactory  evidence  that 
our  affections,  our  friendships,  are  to  know  a  richer  and 
lovelier  development  than  they  can  ever  attain  to  on  this 
earth.  In  heaven  there  must  be  room  for  every  lofty 
ideal." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  deep  intuition  of  the  real  necessities 
of  the  soul  beside  him,  he  went  on  to  say  ; — "  Yet  there,  as 
here,  I  suppose,  the  one  satisfying,  completing  thing  will 
the  love  of  God.  The  soul  was  made  to  look  np,  not 
along  a  level ;  it  can  only  find  its  highest  joy  in  some 
thing  superior  to  itself." 


370  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

She  turned,  and  looked  him  intently  in  the  face. 

"  Do  you  believe  what  you  say  ?  "  she  asked,  doubtfully. 

Very  solemnly  Bergan  answered ; — "  I  do." 

"  Belief  is  nothing,"  she  rejoined,  after  a  pause,  "  action 
is  the  test.  Do  you  live  your  belief  ?  " 

Bergan    drew  a   deep   breath.     "  I   try  to  do  so,  Miss 
Thane." 

She  went  on,  seemingly  so  intent  upon  her  own  train  of 
thought  as  to  bo  utterly  unmindful  of  the  solemn  and 
searching  nature  of  the  questions  that  she  was  putting  ; — 

"  You  feel,  then,  this  all-satisfying  love  of  God  in  your 
heart  ?  " 

"  In  some  measure,  I  trust  I  do." 

"  And  when  the  sun  suddenly  dropped,  or  faded,  out  of 
your  sky,  and  the  past  became  a  corpse,  and  the  present  a 
burden,  and  the  future  a  blank,  what  comfort  did  it  give 
you  ?  " 

"  The  comfort  of  knowing  that  all  things  work  together 
for  the  good  of  those  that  love  God,"  responded  Bergan, 
not  without  a  momentary  wonder  at  the  curious  apposite- 
ness  of  the  question  to  his  recent  experiences,  but  quickly 
divining  that  she  was  looking  more  into  her  own  heart  than 

O  O 

his,  in  asking  it. 

"Good,"  she  repeated,  musingly;  "you  did  not  say, 
happiness." 

"  Good  is  a  better  word  than  happiness,  in  this  world. 
In  the  world  to  come,  they  will  be  synonyms." 

She  gave  him  another  long,  penetrating  look.  Then  she 
said,  quite  simply,  and  evidently  with  no  thought  or  inten 
tion  of  paying  him  compliments; — "You  have  talents,  you 
have  culture,  you  have  a  clear  and  powerful  intellect  (I 
heard  Judge  Emly  begin  an  argument  with  you  just  now, 
and  you  soon  cut  the  very  ground  from  under  his  feet), 
you  have  been  wonderfully  successful,  too,  considering  your 
years, — yet  you  do  not  hesitate  to  bind  yourself  to  these 
narrow  theories." 


FAKVIEW.  377 

"  Narrow,  do  you  think  them  ?  Broad,  rather,  since  they 
link  eternity  to  time,  and  give  one  the  long  outlook  and 
overlook  which  alone  reveal  things  in  their  true  relations. 
No  one  can  construe  this  world  aright,  or  even  satisfactorily, 
without  doing  it  by  the  light  of  the  next.  As  for  intellect, 
Miss  Thane,  some  of  the  most  commanding  intellects  of  the 
world  have  been  defenders  of  the  '  faith  once  delivered.' 
And,  if  tu-Ai  had  been  lacking,  there  is  a  certain  Book 
that  Time  has  not  been  able  to  make  obsolete,  nor  Science 
to  nullify,  which  tells  how,  aforetime,  God  chose  the  foolish 
things  of  the  world  to  confound  the  wise  :  and  He  can  do  it 
again,  when  the  necessity  arises." 

"  You  are  content,  then,  to  feel  that  your  intellect,  your 
learning,  give  you  no  advantage,  in  these  matters,  over  the 
most  ignorant  of  your  neighbors  ?  " 

"  I  am  content  to  know  that,  in  religion  as  in  most  other 
things,  though  books  may  help,  thorough  knowledge  is  of 
experience.  The  man  who  feels  most  of  the  Spirit  of  God 
in  his  heart,  and  makes  it  most  clearly  manifest  in  his  life, 
is  the  man  most  competent,  other  things  bcjing  equal,  to 
analyze  its  operations  and  effects.  Political  economy,  Miss 
Thane,  is  not  the  only  subject  about  which  men  may  prate 
very  learnedly,  and  know  very  little." 

Coralie's  music  ceased  suddenly.  There  was  a  little  stir 
in  the  parlor,  and  a  murmur  of  voices,  as  if  some  subject  of 
interest  were  under  discussion. 

"  Go,"  commanded  Miss  Thane,  '  •'  they  will  be  looking 
for  you.  I  will  follow  you  in  a  few  moments." 

He  stepped  back  through  the  window.  Coralie  came 
toward  him.  "  We  are  talking,"  said  she,  "  of  going  down 
to  the  negroes '  camp-meeting,  a  little  below  here ;  Mr. 
Sypher  was  just  telling  us  that  it  is  a  sight  well  worth 
seeing,  by  night.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  service,"  replied  Bergan, 
courteously. 

''  And  Diva  ! — where  is  she  ?     Oh,  there  she  comes." 


37S  IIOLDEN   WITH  THE  COKDS. 

Bcrgan  turned.  Miss  Thane  was  standing  between  the 
curtains,  with  her  usual  expression  of  calm  indifference. 

Coralie  explained  what  was  wanted.  "  Would  you  like 
it?"  she  inquired,  twining  her  arm  round  her  friend. 
"  There  will  be  some  fine  artistic  effects." 

Miss  Thane  looked  down  upon  her,  with  a  softness  that 
Bergan  had  never  before  seen  in  her  face,  and  which  gave 
it  a  marvellous  beauty.  "I  like  whatever  you  like,  child," 
she  answered,  evasively. 

In  the  hall,  she  stopped,  and  took  a  shawl  from  the 
rack. 

"  Oli,  Diva,"  exclaimed  Coralie,  "  you  will  not  need 
that,  it  is  so  warm." 

Miss  Thane  stood  doubtful,  with  the  shawl  in  her  hand. 
Bergan  took  it  from  her  quietly,  and  threw  it  across  his 
broad  shoulder.  "  It  is  always  safe  to  carry  a  shawl,  if  not 
to  wear  it,:'  said  he,  lightly. 

There  was  no  formal  arrangement  of  the  party.  The 
path  lay  through  the  fields,  and  was  often  too  narrow  to 
admit  more  than  one  person  ;  at  other  times,  partnerships 
of  two  or  three  were  formed  or  broken,  very  much  by 
chance.  A  broad  glory  of  moonshine  not  only  lighted 
them  on  their  way,  but  surrounded  them  with  enchantment, 
— softening  lines,  and  deepening  shadows,  and  turning  the 
whole  earth  into  a  new  creation  of  silver  and  ebony. 


IV. 

A  WORD   IN   DUE    SEASON. 

ERE   long,  the  shadowy  wood-line  was  reached,  and 
very  soon   a  red  twinkle  of  light  became  visible 
through  the  trees,  broadening  and  brightening  as 
they  advanced.     The  sweet  and  solemn  notes  of  a  hymn, 
sung  by  many  voices,  next  pervaded  the  air  ;  and  in  a  few 
minutes    more,   they  were  standing  on  the    edge    of   the 
camp-ground,  interested  observers  of  a  singularly  pictu 
resque  scene. 

Opposite  to  them  was  the  speaker's  stand,  well  lighted, 
covered  with  evergreen  boughs,  and  affording  accommoda 
tion  to  a  goodly  company  of  preachers,  but  too  distant 
to  be  unpleasantly  prominent.  Between  them  and  it,  the 
whole  vast  space  was  crowded  with  negro  worshippers; 
some  sitting,  some  kneeling ;  here,  an  uncouth  figure  bowed 
in  an  attitude  of  absorbed  meditation  (or,  it  might  be, 
indulging  in  a  peaceful  sleep)  ;  there,  a  dusky,  upturned 
face,  intent,  or  agonized,  or  rapturous,  according  as  the 
owner  was  devoutly  receptive,  torn  with  conviction  of 
sin,  or  blissfully  assured  of  pardon.  From  among  them 
the  brown  trunks  of  the  forest  trees  rose  straight  and 
shapely  as  the  pillars  of  a  vast  temple  ;  and  overhead,  the 
under  surfaces  of  the  leaves  showed  gray  and  spectral 
against  the  sombre  night  sky.  Here  and  there,  lanterns 
were  fastened  to  the  trees,  but  the  place  was  chiefly  illumi 
nated  by  great  fires  of  pitch  pine,  whence  clouds  of  smoke 
arose  ever  and  anon,  and  hung  trembling  in  the  tree-tops; 
and  the  flames  of  which,  as  they  rose  and  fell,  cast  alternate 
glow  and  gloom  upon  the  upturned  faces,  and  seemed  to 


380  1IOLUEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

work  cori-esponding  changes  of  expression, — sudden  transi 
tions  of  joy  and  sorrow  for  which  there  was  no  apparent 
cause.  Outside  of  these  fires,  scattered  groups  of  specta 
tors  now  came  out  into  bold  relief,  and  now  lost  themselves 
in  shadow ;  strong  profiles  caught  the  eye,  and  then  van 
ished  ;  here  and  there,  too,  white  faces  offered  an  effective 
contrast  to  their  darker  neighbors. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  picture  to  delight  an  artist's  eye ; 
yet  Miss  Thane  seemed  scarcely  to  enjoy  it.  On  the  way 
iiither  she  had  been  silent,  shut  up  within  herself,  neither 
seeking  nor  giving  amusement ;  and  she  now  stood  a  little 
apart,  letting  her  eyes  rove  absently  from  point  to  point, 
but  without  appearing  to  take  intelligent  cognizance  of 
any.  Yet  she  seemed  to  be  listening,  after  awhile,  to  the 
voice  of  the  white-haired  negro  preacher  who  occupied  the 
stand,  and  talked  of  the  comfort  of  religious  faith  in  a  way 
to  argue  profound  personal  knowledge  of  the  subject, — 
albeit,  his  phraseology  was  illiterate,  and  occasionally 
absurd,  calling  a  smile  to  some  faces  in  the  party.  But 
Diva  did  not  smile  ;  her  thoughts  were  evidently  far  below 
the  surface  of  the  subject,  in  depths  where  the  gleaming 
ripple  of  the  comic  was  unfelt  and  unseen. 

The  party  was  considerably  scattered.  Miss  Youle  and 
her  friend,  tired  with  their  walk,  had  found  a  seat  on  the 
outermost  of  the  benches,  watched  over  by  Judge  Emly ; 
the  youthful  Miss  Nina  and  one  of  the  planters  had  gone 
round  to  get  a  view  from  the  other  side  ;  Coralie  stood 
near  a  fire,  listening  to  the  low  comments  of  Mr.  Syphcr ; 
and  Mr.  Youle  and  Berganwere  quite  in  the  background, 
silent  spectators,  for  the  most  part,  of  Avhat  was  going  on. 

The  white-haired  speaker  brought  his  brief  address  to  a 
close  ;  and  a  number  of  negroes  quitted  the  benches  and 
came  up  the  path.  Mechanically,  Coralie  stepped  back  to 
make  way. 

"  Take  care,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sypher,  in  a  warning  voice, 
"  you  will  catch  fire.'' 


A    WOKD   IN   DUE    SEASON.  381 

But  he  was  too  late.  She  had  moved  within  reach  of 
the  draft,  and  her  light  muslin  robe  was  wafted  into  the 
blaze.  Instantly,  she  felt  the  heat,  saw  over  her  shoulder 
a  rising  tongue  of  flame,  and  with  the  insane  impulse  which 
usually  seizes  upon  those  in  like  peril,  turned  to  flee  from 
the  danger  which  it  was  so  impossible  to  distance.  Bui 
scarcely  had  she  taken  a  step,  before  Bergan's  strong  arm 
caught  her,  and  flung  her,  face  downward,  on  the  ground  ; 
with  a  deft  movement  of  the  other  hand  and  arm,  Miss 
Thane's  shawl  was  shaken  out  and  thrown  over  her ;  and, 
in  spite  of  her  frantic  struggles,  she  was  held  fast  by  one 
knee,  while  he  applied  both  hands  to  the  task  of  smothering 
the  flames.  Miss  Thane  was  the  first  to  come  to  his  aid  ; 
then  the  rest  of  the  party  woke  from  their  momentary 
stupor  of  alarm,  and  joined  their  efforts  to  hers.  In  very 
brief  space  of  time,  the  work  of  extinguishment  was  com 
plete,  and  Coralie,  being  lifted  to  her  feet,  still  enveloped 
in  the  friendly  shawl,  was  found  to  be  comparatively  unin 
jured.  Her  floating  curls  were  singed  at  the  ends,  one  arm 
was  slightly  reddened  and  smarting,  and  her  nerves  were 
considerably  shaken — that  was  all ; — all !  where  there  might 
so  easily  have  been  death,  or  torture  and  disfigurement 
worse  than  death. 

The  whole  thing  had  taken  place  so  suddenly  and 
swiftly,  that  only  such  persons  as  were  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  had  been  aware  either  of  the  peril  or  the  rescue  ; 
so  that  it  was  by  chance,  as  it  were,  that  the  whole  vast 
multitude  now  burst  forth  with  the  solemn  old  Doxology ; — 

"  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow." 

The  great  wave  of  sound  flowed  round  and  over  the 
little  breathless  party,  and  charitably  veiled  or  soothed  its 
emotions.  Mr.  Youlc,  standing  with  his  arm  round  his 
daughter,  bowed  his  face  on  her  head,  and  a  large  tear  glis 
tened  on  her  soft  curls  ;  Miss  Youle  sank  on  her  knees  by  the 
bench  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  wept  silently;  others 


382  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COKDS. 

of  the  party  bent  their  heads,  or  lifted  their  hats ;  Diva 
Thane  held  one  of  Coralie's  hands  close  clasped  in  hers, 
but  her  face  was  turned  away.  Suddenly,  she  threw  her 
voice  into  the  last  line  of  the  Doxology, — 

"  Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost," 

with  a  richness  and  power  that  were  like  the  swell  of  an 
organ.  It  appeared  to  pervade  and  sustain  the  whoiu 
chorus  of  voices,  and  impressed  them  inevitably  with  its 
own  character ;  which,  to  Bergan's  ear,  seemed  not  so  much 
an  expression  of  thankfulness,  as  the  irresistible  outbreak  of 
a  feeling  that  would  gladly  have  given  itself  the  more 
effectual  relief  of  moaning  aloud,  had  the  opportunity  been 
afforded  it. 

A  bystander  now  considerately  offered  Mr.  Youle  the 
loan  of  his  horse  and  buggy,  and  Coralie  and  her  aunt  were 
swiftly  driven  homeward.  The  remainder  of  the  party 
walked  back  as  they  had  come,  Miss  Thane  and  Bergan 
being  in  the  rear.  As  they  turned  into  the  narrow  wood- 
path,  she  motioned  him  to  precede  her ;  and  he  quietly 
obeyed,  understanding,  better  than  she  knew,  her  desire  to 
feel  herself  free  from  observation.  Yet  he  failed  not  to 
listen  for  the  sound  of  her  light  footsteps  behind  him,  and 
to  adapt  his  pace  to  hers.  Meanwhile,  his  mind  busied 
itself,  almost  against  his  will,  with  a  new  and  serious  ques 
tion.  In  the  little  interval  before  the  starting  of  the  buggy, 
Coralie  had  taken  his  hands  in  hers,  and  thanked  him  for 
the  service  rendered  her,  with  a  look  that  haunted  him 
still.  There  had  been  nothing  in  that  look  but  what  Avas 
most  delicate  and  maidenly, — an  involuntary  attempt  to 
help  out  with  her  eyes  the  broken  words  which  yet  expressed 
her  gratitude  so  well ;  nevertheless,  it  had  been  possessed 
of  some  indefinable  quality  which  had  touched  him  deeply 
at  the  time,  and  now  set  him  gravely  to  question  within  him 
self  whether  he  had  any  right  to  be  the  object  of  a  second 
look  of  the  kind;  at  least,  while  the  past  was  still  a  deso- 


A   WORD   IN   DUE   SEASON.  383 

late  grave,  over  wh.ch  no  grass  yet  grew  green,  no  flowers 
bloomed.  Trained  to  look  difficult  questions  in  the  face, 
stripping  them  of  all  confusing  or  meretricious  appendages, 
it  did  not  take  him  long  to  arrive  at  an  emphatic  "  No,"  as 
the  only  possible  answer  to  this  one.  Fortunately,  he  had 
not  committed  himself  to  any  particular  length  of  stay  at 
Farview,  and  the  sudden  recollection  of  an  important  paper 
that  he  had  locked  up  in  his  desk,  instead  of  committing  it 
to  the  safer  guardianship  of  the  fire-proof  safe,  suggested 
itself  as  an  excellent  excuse  for  a  speedy  departure.  He 
decided  that  he  would  take  his  leave  early  in  the  morning, 
and  see  Coralie  no  more  until  he  had  determined  that  the 
past  had  become  so  far  a  dream  as  to  admit  of  a  new  dream 
of  the  future. 

This  honorable  decision  being  reached,  his  mind  was 
sufficiently  at  ease  to  allow  him  to  notice  that  his  pace  had 
gradually  become  a  very  slow  one,  in  half  unconscious  con 
formity  to  the  lagging  footsteps  behind  him, — footsteps 
which  spoke  so  unmistakably  of  a  troubled  mind  or  an 
exhausted  frame.  It  even  appeared  that  Miss  Thane 
stopped  altogether,  now  and  then,  by  reason  of  absorbing 
thought,  or  from  the  necessity  of  taking  breath.  Bergan 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  divided  between  the  fear  of  being 
intrusive,  and  the  kindly  impulse  to  afford  timely  help ; 
but  the  latter  prevailed,  and,  the  path  having  widened 
somewhat,  he  turned  and  offered  her  his  arm.  She  shook 
her  head  absently,  at  first;  then  seemed  to  become  sud 
denly  aware  that  support  was  needful,  and  accepted  it. 

"  We  are  privileged  to  be  silent,  I  believe,"  said  Bergan, 
as  they  moved  on  together,  "only  in  the  presence  of 
strangers  or  friends.  Count  me  in  either  category,  as  you 
please,  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  to  talk.  I  see  you  are 
tired." 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Miss  Thane,  in  a  cool  tone  of 
acquiescence. 

Across  the  next  two  fields,  their  own  linked  shadows, 


384:  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

sliding  slowly  over  the  ground  in  advance  of  them,  were 
not  more  silent  than  they.  The  voices  of  their  companions, 
who  had  far  outstripped  them,  reached  their  ears  only  in 
subdued  and  harmonious  murmurs.  The  moonlight  lay 
over  the  earth  like  a  visible  blessing  of  peace ;  and  even 
threw  a  kind  of  reflected  brightness  into  Miss  Thane's 
heart,  by  the  aid  of  which  she  was  better  able  to  try  to  find 
some  pathway  out  of  its  shadoAvs.  In  that  one  terrible 
moment,  when  she  had  seemed  to  see  Coralie  wrapped  in 
flames,  a  swift  vision  of  herself,  left  standing  alone  in  the 
world — without  relative,  without  friend,  without  human 
aflfection,  hope,  or  solace — a  lonely,  empty,  unsatisfied 
heart — had  risen  before  her,  and  left  her  appalled,  even  in 
the  midst  of  her  thankfulness  that  it  was  only  a  vision  as 
yet,  and  not  a  reality.  For,  how  easily,  through  the 
agency  of  a  boat  or  an  engine,  a  fever  or  a  chill,  a  thousand 
evcry-day  accidents,  it  might  still  become  a  reality  !  With 
what  was  she  then  to  supply  Coralie's  place  in  her  heart 
and  life  ? 

Awhile  ago,  she  would  have  answered  confidently, 
"  With  Art."  Now,  she  knew  better.  For  two  years  she 
had  been  testing  Art's  capacity  to  fill  and  satisfy  an  empty 
human  heart,  and  her  soul  was  exceeding  bitter  with  the 
unexpected  result.  She  had  painfully  experienced  the 
truth  (though  she  could  hardly  be  said  to  understand  it  as 
yet)  that  he  who  embraces  Art  with  a  thought  of  self  and 
not  of  service,  will  find  it  turn  to  ice  or  to  ashes  in  his 
arms.  In  itself,  it  has  neither  balm  for  affliction,  nor  skilful 
surgery  for  remorse,  nor  sunshine  to  throw  athwart  the 
black  gloom  of  despair. 

Out  of  this  bitter  knowledge-  Miss  Thane  finally  spoke, 
apparently  recurring  in  thought  to  their  previous  talk  on 
the  piazza ; — 

"Mr.  Arling,  how  is  one  to  love  God,  if  one  does 
not?" 

It  was  perhaps  the  most  difficult  of  all  questions  to 


A   WORD   IN    DUE   SEASON.  385 

answer.  How  are  the  blind  eyes  to  be  opened,  and  the 
deaf  ears  unstopped?  How  is  the  frozen  heart  to  be 
softened,  and  the  slumbering  affection  to  be  wakened  into 
leaf  and  bloom  ?  How  is  the  Father  to  be  made  acceptable 
to  the  children  that  are  insensible  of  His  goodness,  and 
will  none  of  His  reproof?  And  how  is  the  Saviour  to  be 
presented  unto  those  to  whom  He  has  hitherto  been  with 
out  form  or  comeliness,  in  such  beauty  as  that  they  shall 
desii-e  Him  ? 

"  I  think,  where  it  is  not  spontaneous,"  Bergan  answered, 
after  a  moment's  consideration,  "that  such  love  is  most 
surely  to  be  attained  through  prayer  and  service ; — a  fre 
quent  lifting  up  of  the  heart  to  Him  whom  it  would  fain 
love ;  a  constant  endeavor  to  do  His  will,  as  the  best  means 
of  developing  and  manifesting  love." 

Miss  Thane  looked  down  thoughtfully.  "  I  have  known 
— a  man," — she  began  slowly,  with  a  shade  of  irrepressible 
sadness  in  her  tone, — "  a  man  not  less  gifted  with  talent 
and  intellectual  power  than  yourself,  and  with  a  somewhat 
longer  and  more  varied  experience  in  the  use  of  his  gifts, 
who  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  of  any  virtue  in 
prayer,  except  as  affording  a  pleasant  illusion  to  a  weak 
mind." 

"I,  too,  have  known  such  a  man,"  replied  Bergan,  the 
image  of  Doctor  Remy  rising  irresistibly  before  his  mind, 
and  causing  a  dull  ache  in  his  heart ;  "  but  was  he — was 
this  man  of  whom  you  speak — or  had  he  ever  been,  in  the 
devout,  habitual  use  of  prayer  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.     "  I  do  not  know ;  probably  not." 

"Miss  Thane,  you  would  scarcely  need  to  have  me 
warn  you  that  no  man  is  to  be  accepted  as  authority,  in 
law  or  medicine,  who  is  not  thoroughly  conversant  with 
the  subject,  both  by  study  and  practice.  So  those,  and 
those  only,  who  pray  themselves,  humbly,  devoutly,  per 
sistently,  have  any  right  to  pronounce  upon  the  efficacy  of 
prayer." 

17 


386  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly  and  keenly.  "Pardon 
me,  but — have  you  the  right  to  speak  with  authority  ?  " 

"  In  some  small  measure,  yes.  I  can  certify  you  that 
the  medicine  is  good,  because  I  have  taken  it ;  that  the 
staff  is  strong,  because  I  have  leaned  upon  it ;  that  the 
weapon  is  efficient,  because  I  have  fought  with  it.  Allow 
me  to  hope  that  you  do  not  need  the  certification." 

Her  eyes  fell,  and  her  cheek  flushed  slightly,  but  she 
answered  with  her  usual  straightforward  candor : — "  I  was 
never  taught  to  pray ; — my  mother  died  when  I  was  born, 
and  my  father  believed  none  of  these  things.  I  have  no 
habit  of  prayer." 

"  Does  no  one  pray  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — Coralie,  perhaps." 

Bergan  looked  down  upon  her,  and  a  sudden  moisture 
dimmed  his  eyes.  His  heart  was  taken  complete  possession 
of,  for  the  moment,  by  a  vast,  sorrowful  pity  for  this  beau 
tiful  and  gifted  woman,  who  masked  so  empty  and  aching 
a  heart  with  so  cold  a  demeanor,  impelling  him  irresistibly 
to  help  her,  as  he  could. 

"  When  you  are  next  asked  that  question,"  said  he,  and 
there  was  a  deep,  rich  melody  in  his  voice,  "  do  not  say 
that  you  '  don't  know,'  for  I  promise  to  put  up  a  prayer 
for  you  daily,  from  henceforth,  until  you  send  me  word 
that  you  have  learned  to  pray  habitually  and  gladly  for 
yourself.  Hereafter,  when  you  lie  down  to  rest,  remember 
that  another — claiming  no  title  of  friend,  but  simply  that 
of  neighbor — has  asked  forgiveness  for  your  day,  protection 
for  your  night,  and  every  strength  that  you  need  for  your 
morrow." 

The  proud  heart  was  touched  at  last.  That  is  to  say, 
Bergan's  words  were  the  effectual  "  last  drop  "  in  the  full 
cup  of  the  evening's  varied  emotions, — comparatively  in 
significant  perhaps  in  itself,  but  none  the  less  inevitably 
productive  of  overflow.  Miss  Thane's  lips  parted  with  a 
kind  of  gasp,  scarcely  distinguishable  as  sound,  but  pro- 


A   WOKD   IN   DUE    SEASON.  387 

foundly  suggestive  of  pain  ;  and  a  perceptible  tremor  ran 
over  her  from  head  to  foot.  Suddenly  releasing  Bergan's 
arm,  she  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  by  the  side  of  the  path, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  while  tears,  dripping 
through  her  slender  fingers,  glistened  gem-like  in  the 
moonlight. 

Yet  it  argued  much  for  her  power  of  self-control,  that 
she  made  no  sound,  nor  shook  with  any  sob.  Grief  must  be 
content  to  exercise  over  her  limited,  not  absolute  dominion. 

Bergan  withdrew  to  a  little  distance,  and  waited  silently, 
looking  out  over  the  shadowy  valley  to  the  fair,  flowing 
outline  of  the  moon-silvered  hills.  Those  womanly  tears, 
he  was  certain,  would  afford  most  safe  and  seasonable  re 
lief  to  whatever  pain  and  excitement,  whatever  distressful 
memories  or  dismal  forebodings,  had  resulted  from  the 
evening's  events.  For  himself,  comparative  stranger  as  he 
was,  he  had  no  right  to  give  Miss  Thane  more  than  the 
silent  sympathy  of  a  heart  itself  not  unacquainted  with 
sorrow. 

Suddenly,  the  deep  silence  was  broken  by  the  soft  whirr 
of  wings.  A  bird,  flying  as  straight  over  the  moonlighted 
fields  as  if  let  loose  by  an  unseen  hand  for  that  purpose, 
alighted  in  the  boughs  over  the  two  motionless  figures,  and 
shook  down  upon  them  a  shower  of  liquid  notes, — sweet, 
clear,  and  joyous, — a  very  prophecy  of  hope. 

The  song  being  sung,  the  bird  soon  spread  its  wings 
and  flew  back  to  its  nest  and  its  mate.  Then  Diva  rose, 
and  held  out  her  hand  to  Bergan. 

"  I  accept  your  offer,"  said  she.  "  Something  tells  me 
that  the  time  will  come  when  I  can  repay  you  in  degree, 
if  not  in  kind." 

And  Bergan,  as  he  took  the  white,  cool  hand — empty 
now,  except  perhaps  of  a  half-reluctant  gratitude,  and  a 
moderate  measure  of  good-will — had  a  singular  intuition 
that  some  day  it  would  be  held  out  to  him  with  an  inesti 
mable  gift  in  it. 


V. 

INTERCEPTED. 

'~"V7"OU   are   up   early,"   said   Diva  Thane,  when   she 

I         entered  Coralie's  room  on  the  morrow,  and  found 

her  standing  by  the  window,  enjoying  the  fresh, 

fragrant  air,  and  the  innumerable  sweet  and  cheery  sounds 

of  the  summer  morning.     "  I  thought  that  you  would  sleep 

late  after  your  accident, — or  what  came  so  near  to  being 

one." 

"  How  could  I  sleep  late,  when  I  was  ordered  off  to  bed 
so  early  ?  "  rejoined  Coralie,  smiling  brightly,  and  turning 
her  clear  brown  eyes  on  her  friend.  "  Besides,  I  had  so 
much  to  think  about,"  she  added,  softly  and  gravely,  let 
ting  her  glance  go  back  to  the  flower-beds  on  the  lawn. 

But  it  was  evident  that  her  reflections,  though  possibly 
not  without  an  occasional  deep  bass  note  of  solemnity,  had 
for  the  most  part  sung  her  a  very  siren's  song  of  pleasant 
ness  and  hope ;  none  the  less  entrancing  because  a  song 
without  words  of  definite  purport.  The  smile  and  the 
flush,'  with  which  she  had  listened,  still  brightened  her 
face ;  and  a  corresponding  light  was  seen  shining  from  what 
seemed  an  interminable  depth  in  her  eyes, — eyes  never  so 
deeply  illumined  till  now.  Indeed,  it  struck  Diva  with  a 
kind  of  vague  amaze  and  sadness,  that  she  had  never  seen 
this  Coralie  before !  There  was  an  unfamiliar  freshness 
and  softness  about  her,  as  if  she  were  newly  created.  The 
brightness  of  her  face,  too,  was  such  as  to  make  her  seem 
more  nearly  akin  to  the  summer  sunshine  falling  on  her 
through  the  window,  than  to  mortal  shadows  and  sorrows. 
In  truth,  Diva  found  herself  fancying  that  the  sunshine  was 


INTERCEPTED.  389 

a  good  deal  the  brighter  for  the  happy  glow  that  it  caught 
from  her  featui-es. 

Surprised,  ere  long,  at  Diva's  silence,  Coralie  lifted  her 
eyes,  and  encountered  her  friend's  intent  gaze.  Immedi 
ately  she  seemed  to  become  aware  that  a  wonderfully  subtle 
and  delicate  insight  was  making,  not  her  face  only,  but  her 
heart,  the  subject  of  its  deep  regard.  The  moment  before, 
she  did  not  know  that  there  was  anything  in  either  which 
she  cared  to  hide.  Now,  as  if  the  existence  of  some  secret 
were  suddenly  suggested  to  her  by  the  fear  of  another's 
perception  of  it,  she  let  her  eyes  fall,  and  a  deep  flush 
overspread  her  features. 

Diva  turned  away  with  a  sigh.  She  felt  scarcely  less 
lonely  than  she  had  seen  herself  in  the  vision  of  the  preced 
ing  evening,  when  Coralie  had  seemed  to  be  passing 
swiftly  beyond  her  reach  and  ken,  in  a  chariot  of  flame. 

Nor  was  her  sadness  wholly  for  herself.  She  was  gifted 
with  a  singular  clearness  of  intuition,  in  regard  to  the  rela 
tions  of  others ;  and  Coralie's  face  affected  her  much  as  it 
would  have  done  to  find  a  rose  suddenly  budding  out  on  a 
sunny  winter's  day,  and  mistaking  it  for  the  beginning  of 
summer.  Still,  as  is  often  the  case  with  persons  thus  en 
dowed,  she  did  not  fully  trust  her  own  intuitions,  for  the 
reason  that  they  could  give  no  clear  account  of  themselves 
to  her  intellect.  She  now  told  herself,  therefore,  that  her 
impressions  were  doubtless  wrong,  inasmuch  as  they  were 
destitute  of  solid  basis ;  she  was  even  glad  to  believe  so, 
quickly  losing  the  thought  of  herself  in  that  of  her  friend. 
Or  it  might  be  that  she  was  seized  with  a  diviner  selfish 
ness, — the  certainty  that,  if  any  winter's  night  of  frost  and 
dusk  were  in  store  for  Coralie,  she  herself  must  needs  par 
take  largely,  through  sympathy,  of  its  chill  and  gloom. 

As  the  friends  stood  thus  silent,  each  busy  with  her 
own  impressions  (for  they  were  of  much  too  thin  a  con 
sistency  to  be  called  thoughts),  certain  sounds  from  be 
low,  coming  up  to  the  window,  attracted  their  notice.  A 


390  JIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

horse  was  brought  round  to  the  side  door,  and,  soon 
after,  Bergan's  voice  was  distinctly  heard,  speaking  to  Mr. 
Youle. 

"  That  will  do,  thank  you.  I  shall  quite  enjoy  my  ride 
through  the  valley,  this  lovely  morning.  Present  my 
adieux  to  Miss  Coralie;  I  trust  that  her  night's  rest  has 
obliterated  every  trace  of  her  last  evening's  experience. 
Good-bye." 

"  Why,  that  is  Mr.  Arling  !  "  exclaimed  Coralie,  in  sud 
den  consternation.  "  What  can  have  happened  to  take  him 
away  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  I  heard  him  telling  your  father,  last  night,"  answered 
Diva,  calmly,  "  that  he  would  be  forced  to  return  to  town 
early  this  morning  on  business  of  importance." 

"  And  he  did  not  bid  me  good-bye  !  "  murmured  Coralie, 
discontentedly.  "  Besides,  I  have  not  half  thanked  him  for 
saving  me  fi-om  those  dreadful  flames," — and  she  shuddered 
at  the  recollection.  "  Oh,  I  must  speak  to  him,  before  he 
goes." 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window,  apparently  with  the  inten 
tion  of  calling  to  him,  but  it  was  too  late ;  he  was  already 
trotting  down  the  avenue,  followed  by  the  groom  who  was 
to  bring  back  the  horse.  She  looked  after  him  with  a  wist 
ful  gaze,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Diva  watched  her  thoughtfully, — intent,  it  would  seem, 
upon  some  deeper  and  more  perplexing  phase  of  the  mat 
ter  than  that  immediately  presented  to  her.  Finally,  she 
said,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought : — 

"  If  you  want  to  speak  to  him  so  much,  there  is  a  way. 
You  know  the  shorter  path  through  the  shrubbery  to  the 
entrance  gate ;  we  can  intercept  him." 

"  Oh,  no !  I  could  not  do  that,"  exclaimed  Coralie, 
shrinking  back  and  blushing  deeply,  "  he  would  think — 
that  is,  it  would  look  like  thrusting  myself  in  his  way." 

"  He  would  think  nothing,"  affirmed  Diva,  coolly,  "  ex 
cept  that  we  arc  out  for  a  morning  walk,  as  we  have  a  good 


INTERCEPTED.  391 

right  to  be ;  there  never  was  a  lovelier  sky  or  earth  to  tempt 
one  forth.     Come,  we  must  be  quick." 

And,  without  waiting  for  consent,  or  listening  to  remon 
strance,  Diva  seized  Coralie's  hand,  and  hurried  her  down 
the  stairs,  and  out  through  a  different  door  from  that  by 
which  Bergan  had  taken  his  departure, — where  Mr. 
Youle  still  lingered, — so  that  they  reached  the  shrubbery 
unobserved.  Here,  Diva  slackened  her  pace  a  little,  though 
she  still  kept  hold  of  her  half  reluctant,  and  nearly  breath 
less  companion.  They  reached  the  gate  before  Bergan 
came  in  sight. 

"Let  us  go  back  a  little  way,'*  pleaded  Coralie  j  "I 
don't  want  to  be  found  waiting  here." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Diva,  composedly,  seating  herself 
on  a  low,  broad  stump  by  the  way-side.  "  Mr.  Arling  is 
not  a  vain  man,  he  will  never  suspect  us  of  waiting  for 
him.  But  if  you  must  have  an  excuse  for  lingering  here, — 
why,  there  are  some  exquisite  ferns  yonder, — gather  them 
for  your  parlor  vases." 

Coralie  hesitated,  doubtful  whether  to  stay  or  flee.  Diva 
plucked  a  dainty  leaf  of  wood-sorrel,  and  put  it  between 
the  perfect  curves  of  her  own  lips. 

"Coralie,"  she  suddenly  asked,  "  how  old  am  I?" 

Despite  her  perplexity,  Coralie  could  not  help  smiling 
at  the  absurdity  of  the  question.  "  Are  you  losing  your 
memory  ? "  she  inquired ;  "  you  are  two  years  older 
than  I." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  I  thought  I  must  have  been  at  least 
a  hundred, — it  seemed  such  an  age  since  I  used  to  eat  this 
green  stuff  with  relish.  But  you  are  certainly  young  yet, 
though  you  do  look  a  year  or  two  older  than  you  did 
yesterday." 

Coralie  quickly  stooped  over  the  ferns  to  hide  her  deeply- 
diffused  cheeks.  Diva  continued,  apparently  without  notic 
ing  her  confusion : — 

"  However,  if  the  little  plant  has  lost  much  to  the  taste, 


392  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

it  has  gained  more  to  the  eye.  I  never  noticed,  in  those 
days,  what  a  delicately  outlined  leaf,  and  slender,  translu 
cent  stem  it  had,  nor  how  fresh  was  its  tint  of  green.  If 
Mr.  Arling  were  here,  now,  he  would  turn  that  into  a 
simile, — something  about  a  spiritual  sense  developed  out 
of  an  earthly  one,  or  a  refined  enjoyment  only  to  be  attained 
through  some  loss  of  the  capacity  for  commoner  pleasures; 
— isn't  that  a  little  in  his  style  ?  Ah  !  there  he  is." 

Bergan  was  looking  straight  before  him,  so  much 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  did  not  see  the  friends 
until  he  was  close  at  hand.  He  immediately  dismounted, 
flung  his  bridle  to  the  groom,  and  came  toward  them  with 
extended  hand. 

"So  you  were  going  to  leave  without  bidding  us  good 
bye,"  said  Miss  Thane,  coolly,  ignoring  the  offered  hand, 
but  looking  him  searchingly  in  the  eyes. 

If  Bergan  felt  a  little  embarrassment  under  that  look, 
he  did  not  betray  it. 

"  I  supposed  that  you  were  not  up,"  he  answered,  with 
perfect  composure.  "  And  whoever  travels  at  this  season 
of  the  year,  had  best  do  it  betimes  in  the  morning,  before 
the  sunbeams  are  hot  as  well  as  bright.  Miss  Coralie,  I 
am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  fully  yourself." 

His  sentence  ended  a  little  abruptly,  as  if  whatever  else 
he  had  intended  to  say  was  suddenly  put  out  of  his  head. 
He,  too,  had  become  dimly  aware  of  some  subtle  change  or 
development  in  Coralie,  since  the  evening  before, — a  more 
womanly  grace,  a  new  character  of  beauty ;  which,  how 
ever,  only  served  to  bring  the  image  of  Caricc  vividly 
before  him — Carice,  as  he  had  seen  her  last,  and  would 
never  see  her  again,  under  the  shadowy  pines,  by  the 
dreaming  river,  with  the  newborn  love-light  in  her  eyes, 
and  the  dawn-rose  of  love  in  her  cheeks.  Scarce  knowing 

O 

what  he  did,  he  lifted  his  hand,  to  see  if,  haply,  he  might 
shut  out  both  images  together. 

O  O 

Coralic's  eyes  fell   on  that  hand,  Avhich  was  carefully 


INTERCEPTED.  393 

bandaged  from  wrist  to  knuckles ;  and  the  unconquerable 
shyness  winch  had  seized  her,  on  Bergan's  appearance,  was 
instantly  dissipated. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked; — "oh,  Mr.  Arling,  were 
you  burned  last  night  in  trying  to  save  me  ?  " 

Bergan  looked  at  Diva  and  smiled.  "  It  is  nothing," 
said  he,  lightly, — "only  your  aunt  and  Miss  Thane  insisted 
upon  binding  it  up  after  I  got  home  ;  and  the  least  that  I 
can  do  is  to  wear  their  kindly  handiwork  for  a  day  or  two." 

"  Oh,  Diva,"  exclaimed  Coralie  reproachfully,  the 
quick  moisture  coming  into  her  eyes,  "  why  did  you  not 
tell  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I?  "  replied  Diva,  Avith  somewhat  bitter 
emphasis;  "  hands  heal  quickly." 

"  Miss  Thane  is  quite  right,"  said  Bergan  ;  "  the  matter 
was  i.ot  worth  mentioning.  Certainly,  it  was  not  worth 
one  of  those  tears,  Miss  Coralie;  you  will  make  me  too 
proud  of  having  gotten  a  small  scratch  in  the  fray.  If  it 
were  ten  times  as  much,  it  would  in  nowise  offset  what  I 
owe  your  father.  Now  I  must  bid  you  farewell,  or  I  shall 
miss  the  train." 

"  Will  you  not  come  up  again  soon  ?  "  asked  Coralie, 
coloring  a  little,  but  strong  in  the  certainty  that  she  could 
not  err  in  showing  her  preserver  the  most  cordial  courtesy. 
"  It  must  be  good  for  you  to  leave  the  city  as  often  as  you 
can.  And  you  have  certainly  earned  the  right  to  consider 
Farview  as  your  home,  whenever  it  suits  you  to  do  so." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Bergan,  bowing  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  kind  and  thoughtful  invitation.  "But  I  am  neces 
sarily  a  busy  and  homeless  man,  and  it  is  the  truest  Avisdom 
for  me  not  to  stray  too  far  out  of  my  proper  orbit,  lest  I  get 
dissatisfied  with  it.  When  I  become  more  fully  and  firmly 
settled  therein,  a  day's  absence  may  not  matter  so  much ; 
and  then,  if  your  invitation  still  holds  good,  I  shall  be  only 
too  happy  to  avail  myself  of  it." 

"  It  must  always  hold  good,  just  as  a  kindness  once 
17* 


394:  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE    COEDS. 

done  is  done  forever,"  replied  Coralie  warmly,  turning  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  unseasonable  inner  voice  that  cried  out 
against  the  coolness  and  reserve  of  Bergan's  response,  and 
holding  out  a  tremulous  little  hand,  by  way  of  signature 
and  seal  to  her  promise. 

Bergan  gave  the  hand  a  friendly  pressure,  and  bowed 
low  to  Miss  Thane.  "  A  pleasant  summer  to  you  both," 
said  he,  "  full  of  flowers  and  sunshine,  both  material  and 
metaphorical.  Farewell." 

He  lifted  his  hat  as  he  rode  through  the  gate  ;  very  soon 
a  turn  of  the  road  hid  him  from  sight.  Coralie  stood  look 
ing  somewhat  wistfully  at  the  point  Avhere  he  had  disap 
peared. 

"  Peace  go  with  him  !  "  said  Diva  lightly.  "  He  was  in 
a  great  hurry  to  leave  us,  but  he  said  '  Farewell '  in  a  way 
to  indicate  that  he  should  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  return. 
Fortunately,  we  are  not  the  sort  of  damsels  to  pine  after 
an  unwilling  knight." 

Coralie  turned  instantly,  and,  with  heightened  color, 
signified  her  readiness  to  go  home. 

For  some  days  her  spirits  were  fitful  and  changeable  ; 
nothing  now  so  gay,  nothing  now  so  sad,  as  her  smile. 
During  this  time  Diva  watched  over  her  with  a  silent,  patient, 
careful  devotion  that  surrounded  her  like  the  atmosphere, 
viewless,  but  beneficent.  She  saved  her  from  annoyance  ; 
she  shielded  her  from  observation ;  she  stood  between  her 
and  her  guests,  taking  up  the  burden  of  their  entertain 
ment  in  a  way  that  would  have  seemed  incredible  to  those 
accustomed  to  see  her  only  languidly  indifferent  or  coldly 
haughty.  Though  her  heart  might  be  narrow,  it  was  cer 
tainly  deep. 

By  and  by,  Coi'alie  began  {o  smile  naturally  once  more, 
and  Diva  was  satisfied  that,  though  the  rose  could  not 
"  shut  and  be  a  bud  again,"  it  had  received  no  lasting 
blight.  If  it  could  be  kept  from  further  harm,  it  might  be 
expected  to  develop  naturally  into  perfection  of  bloom  and 


INTERCEPTED.  395 

beauty, — not  the  hasty  and  one-sided  maturity  that  comes 
of  a  worm  at  the  heart. 

She  could  now  think  of  herself.  Unselfish  anxiety  and 
effort  had  been  very  good  for  her  thus  far,  there  was  not  a 
doubt  of  that.  Nevertheless,  she  was  beginning  to  feel 
urgent  need  of  quiet, — opportunity  to  commune  with  her 
own  heart,  and  be  still, — time  to  deal  justly  and  thoroughly 
with  questions  seething  in  her  mind  ever  since  her  talks 
with  Bergan.  But  it  was  vain  to  look  for  quiet  at  Farview ; 
the  house  was  fast  filling  up  with  gay  guests ;  and  having 
once  dropped  her  ice-mantle  of  reserve,  she  could  not 
resume  it  without  giving  pain  to  her  hosts.  So,  as  Cora- 
lie  was  now  quite  capable  of  taking  her  rightful  place  as 
queen  of  the  festivities,  and  as  she  had  already  stayed 
twice  as  long  as  had  been  contemplated  at  first,  Diva  went 
back  to  her  studio. 


VL 

AN   AIMLESS   STKOLL. 

LATE  one  afternoon,  about  a  month  after  Bergan's 
return  to  Savalla,  lie  quitted  the  office,  which  seemed 
to  have  grown  unaccountably  barren  and  dreary  of 
aspect,  and  set  out  for  an  aimless  stroll  through  the  city. 
The  air  was  fresh  and  moist  from  a  recent  shower,  and  the 
slanting  sunbeams  were  working  alchemic  wonders  in  the 
streets  and  squares  ;  turning  the  polished  leaves  of  the  oak 
and  olive  trees  to  silver,  and  hanging  them  with  prismatic 
jewels,  enriching  the  grass  with  a  vivider  green,  and  the 
earth  with  a  rich  golden  brown,  and  imprinting  the  sensi 
tive  surface  of  every  tiny  rain-pool  with  a  lovely  picture  of 
blue  sky,  fleecy  clouds,  and  pendent  sprays  of  foliage. 

Through  all  these  pleasant  sights  Bergan  moved  slowly 
and  half  absently,  occupying  himself  less  with  their  beauty 
than  with  the  sober  monologue  of  his  own  thoughts.  Yet 
his  gaze  was  not  without  occasional  moments  of  intelli 
gence,  and  in  one  of  these  he  noticed  a  child,  attended  by 
a  large  dog,  standing  with  a  curiously  doubtful,  undecided 
air,  in  the  midst  of  the  square  that  he  was  crossing. 
Suddenly  making  up  her  mind,  it  would  seem,  she  held  out 
her  hand  to  a  gentleman  corning  from  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  who  took  no  further  notice  of  the  mute  appeal  than  was 
implied  by  a  shake  of  the  head.  The  sight  was  a  compar 
atively  strange  one  in  those  days,  when  begging  was  re 
sorted  to  as  an  occasional  resource,  rather  than  followed  as 
a  regular  trade ;  and  Bergan  continued  to  observe  the  child 
with  a  certain  degree  of  interest,  though  not  with  a  wholly 
unpreoccupied  mind,  as  he  advanced  toward  her. 


AN   AIMLESS    STROLL.  397 

All  at  once,  it  struck  him  that  there  was  something 
oddly  familiar  about  her  slender  little  figure.  As  for  the 
dog,  he  was  certainly  an  old  acquaintance,  as  could  easily 
be  proven ;  and  Bergan's  lips  emitted  a  low,  peculiar 
whistle.  There  was  an  instant  pricking  up  of  the  canine 
ears,  and  an  inquisitive  turning  sidewise  of  the  canine 
head,  but  the  faithful  animal  would  not  leave  his  young 
mistress  until  he  was  absolutely  certain  that  he  recognized 
a  friend.  She,  meanwhile,  seemed  to  notice  neither  the 
whistle  nor  its  effect;  nor  could  she  distinctly  see  what 
manner  of  man  drew  near,  her  eyes  being  dazzled  by  the 
level  sun-rays,  but  she  again  mutely  held  out  her  hand. 

It  was  instantly  taken  possession  of.  "  Cathie,"  said 
Bergan,  wonderingly,  "what  does  this  mean?" 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  blank  bewilderment,  but 
ended  by  recognizing  him  and  flinging  herself  into  his 
arms  exactly  as  the  Cathie  of  a  year  before  would  have 
done ;  but  with  a  deep,  long-drawn,  repressed  sob,  implying 
a  profounder  SOITOW  than  had  ever  darkened  the  horizon  of 
even  that  child  of  many  and  incomprehensible  moods. 

Yet  Bergan  was  considerably  relieved  by  her  first 
words ; — "  Oh,  Mr.  Arling,  don't  tell  mamma — don't  tell 
Astra — please  don't !  "  It  seemed  probable  that  the  episode 
of  the  begging  was  simply  one  of  the  child's  strange 
freaks. 

"Did  you  do  it  for  fun,  then?"  he  asked. 

"  Fun  ? "  repeated  Cathie,  with  indignant  emphasis, 
"  do  you  think  it's  fun  to  beg,  Mr.  Arling  ?  I  don't.  I 
was  so  ashamed  that  I  wanted  to  hide  my  face  with  both 
hands." 

"  Then  why  did  you  do  it?"  asked  Bergan,  gravely. 

The  child's  lip  assumed  its  most  sorrowful  curve.  "  To 
get  some  money  to  give  Astra,"  she  answered.  ;'  We  ar^ 
very  poor  now;  the  Bank  Avent  and  got  broke,  with  all 
mamma's  money  in  it;  and  she  was  taken  sick,  and  Astra 
couldn't  get  much  to  do,  and  we've  had  to  move  into  a 


SOS  HOLDEK    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

little  mean  house,  in  a  dirty  little  street,  where  there  are  no 
flowers,  nor  trees,  nor  anything  that's  nice.  And  this 
morning  I  saw  Astra  take  the  last  money  out  of  her  purse, 
to  pay  the  rent,  and  she  looked — oh !  I  can't  tell  how  she 
looked, — something  like  that  big  gray  man,  with  the  little 
boy  on  his  back,  that  she  made  so  long  ago ;  and  I  did  so 
wish  that  I  could  do  something  to  help  her,  just  a  little  bit. 
So,  when  she  sent  me  out  to  take  a  walk  with  Nix,  it  came 
into  my  head  that  I  could  beg  for  her,  if  I  couldn't  do  any 
thing  else,  and  I  thought  I'd  try  it.  Was  it  doing  wrong  ?  " 

Bergan  did  not  answer  except  by  stooping  to  kiss  the 
child's  upturned  face.  His  eyes  grew  moist. 

"  I  know  it  must  be  wrong,"  pursued  Cathie,  innocently, 
"  if  it  makes  you  cry,  Mr.  Arling." 

"  No,  Cathie,"  replied  Bergan,  smiling  reassuringly.  "  I 
do  not  think  it  was  wrong, — at  least,  you  did  not  mean  to 
do  wrong,  and  that  makes  a  great  difference.  But  I  don't 
think  that  you  will  need  to  try  it  again.  Now,  certainly 
you  can  do  something  better ;  that  is,  take  me  home  with 
you." 

On  the  way,  Cathie,  secure  in  the  sympathy  of  this 
trusted  friend  of  better  days,  gave  a  more  detailed  account 
of  the  misfortunes  that  had  befallen  the  little  family,  since 
it  left  Berganton.  His  heart  ached  as  he  pictured  to  him 
self  the  weary  and  wasting  struggle  with  poverty  that 
Astra  had  maintained  so  bravely,  yet  so  hopelessly ;  heavily 
weighted,  on  the  one  hand,  with  the  burden  of  disappointed 
affection,  and,  on  the  other,  with  the  anxiety  caused  by  her 
mother's  severe  illness.  For  works  of  art,  there  had  been 
no  demand;  for  portrait  busts  and  medallions,  there  had 
been  only  a  scanty  and  fitful  one.  Her  last  resource  had 
been  pupils  in  drawing,  but  these  had  now  failed  her,  in 
consequence  of  the  usual  summer  exodus  of  the  city's 
Avealthier  population ;  by  reason  of  which  she  was  reduced 
to  the  bitter  straits  shadowed  forth  by  Cathie's  earlier 
communications.  It  was  touching,  too,  to  see  what  real 


AN    AIMLESS    STROLL.  399 

nobleness  of  character  had  all  along  been  hidden  under  the 
child's  caprice  and  waywardness,  as  evinced  by  the  fact 
that  she  said  little  of  the  privations  that  had  fallen  to  her 
own  lot,  but  dwelt  chiefly  on  her  mother's  lack  of  accus 
tomed  comforts,  and  the  forlorn»face  that  Astra  wore,  when 
out  of  that  mother's  sight. 

The  house  was  reached  before  the  story  had  come  to  an 
end.  It  was  a  little  better  than  Bergan's  fears,  but  far  worse 
than  his  hopes.  It  smote  him  to  the  heart  to  contrast  it  with 
the  comfortable  and  spacious  mansion  that  had  opened  its 
doors  so  readily  to  him  at  Berganton,  and  wherein  he  had 
come  to  feel  himself  so  pleasantly  at  home. 

Cathie  ushered  Bergan  into  the  dingy  little  room  that 
served  both  for  parlor  and  studio,  and  then  rushed  through 
the  opposite  door,  full  of  the  importance  of  the  news  that 
she  had  to  impart.  There  was  a  smothered  exclamation  of 
surprise  from  the  adjoining  room,  followed  by  a  murmured 
consultation ;  and  then  Astra  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

But  it  was  by  no  means  the  Astra  of  Bergan's  remem 
brance.  The  features  were  the  same,  to  be  sure,  but  the 
light,  the  hope,  the  energy,  that  had  animated  them,  and 
informed  them  with  such  rich  and  varied  expression,  was 
utterly  lacking.  There  was  a  perceptible  line  between  the 
eyebrows,  as  if  the  brow  were  wont  to  be  knit  over  difficult 
problems ;  and  the  mouth  expressed  a  settled  melancholy, 
which  a  smile  seemed  only  to  vary  slightly,  not  to  displace. 
Nor  could  Bergan  help  detecting  a  little  hardness  in  it, — 
the  look  of  a  defeated  general,  forced  to  lay  down  his 
weapons,  but  still  unsubdued  in  will. 

What  he  most  marvelled  at,  however,  was  that  it  imme 
diately  brought  Diva  Thane's  face  before  him,  as  if  there 
wei-e  some  subtle  relation  between  them,  though  there  was 
not  the  slightest  resemblance. 

Astra's  manner  to  him  was  scarcely  less  altered  than 
her  face.  It  was  not  exactly  cold,  but  it  lacked  much  of 
the  old  warmth  and  heartiness.  Bergan  took  no  notice  of 


400  IIOLDEN    WI1H    THE    CORDS. 

it ;  he  readily  divined  what  chords  of  painful  association 
were  thrilled  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  how  inevitably  her 
pride  revolted  against  being  seen  in  her  present  surround 
ings.  Her  hand  was  so  cold,  when  he  took  it  in  his,  that 
he  pressed  it  between  both  his  own,  with  a  vague  idea  of 
warming  it ;  then,  stirred  by  a  sympathy  too  deep  for 
ordinary  expression,  he  bent  over  and  touched  it  with  his 
lips. 

"You  are  not  wise,"  said  Astra,  with  a  faint  smile; 
"  you  should  not  do  homage  to  a  fallen  princess." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  rejoined  Bergan,  with  a  deep  music  in 
his  voice.  "  She  is  not  fallen,  but  holding  out  most  bravely 
against  the  time  when  she  may  expect  succor." 

"Succor?"  responded  Astra,  with  a  mixture  of  pride 
and  mournfulness, — "  from  what  or  whom  could  acceptable 
succor  come  ?  " 

Bergan  smiled,  and  pointed  upwai'd.  "  From  the  Source 
of  all  succor,  whatever  be  the  channel." 

Astra  shook  her  head,  and  the  lines  of  her  mouth  grew 
set  and  hard.  "  Acceptable  succor  comes  in  season,"  said 
she,  "  and  through  legitimate  channels." 

Bergan  was  confounded.  This  lack  of  faith,  this  ar 
raignment  of  Providence,  argued  a  more  amazing  change 
in  Astra  than  he  had  yet  suspected.  At  the  same  time  it 
afforded  him  a  clue  to  that  mysterious  connection,  in  his 
mind,  between  her  face  and  Miss  Thane's.  Under  the  hard 
ness  of  the  one  and  the  coldness  of  the  other,  the  same 
scepticism  lay  hidden, — possibly  engendered  by  similar 
causes.  In  Astra's  case,  he  had  no  hesitation  in  attributing 
it  to  Doctor  Remy's  influence  ;  and  he  could  not  but  won 
der  at  the  singular  and  fatal  power  of  the  man  over  the 
minds  of  those  who  were  brought  into  close  contact  with 
him.  Was  this  deadly  poison  to  be  also  instilled  into  the 
pure  mind  of  Carice?  He  shuddered  at  the  thought. 
Better  for  her  to  lie  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  by 
which  he  had  last  seen  her  soft,  rapt  face. 


AN    AIMLESS    STROLL.  401 

Feeling  that  this  was  no  time  to  argue  with  Astra,  Ber- 
gan  turned  to  the  table,  which  Avas  littered  Avith  drawings 
and  sketches,  plaster  reliefs,  and  small  clay  models,  to  a 
degree  that  implied  no  lack  of  patient  industry,  despite  the 
want  of  encouragement,  and  the  absence  of  faith. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,  just  now,"  she  answered,  mournfully.  "  I 
believe  my  hands  have  lost  their  cunning, — if  ever  they 
had  any.  That  is  the  last."  She  pointed  to  a  small  bas- 
relief. 

It  represented  a  child,  skipping  lightly  down  a  flowery 
slope,  ti'ailing  a  vine  behind  her.  The  face  was  turned  so 
far  away  from  the  beholder,  as  to  show  only  the  rounded 
outline  of  the  youthful  cheek  and  bvow,  but  the  figure  ex 
pressed  a  wonderful  joyousness.  In  more  senses  than  one, 
it  was  plainly,  "  In  the  Sunshine ;  "  which  title  was  lightly 
scratched  in  the  plaster. 

Bergan  studied  it  attentively.  "  It  is  as  fresh  as  a  rose," 
said  he,  "  and  as  sweet." 

"The  analogy,  if  there  be  any,  goes  deeper  than  that," 
rejoined  Astra,  bitterly.  "  A  rose  is  born  out  of  darkness 
and  dampness  and  decay,  and  this  is  the  offspring  of  pain 
and  discouragement,  and  all  that  makes  the  hand  weak  and 
the  heart  sick." 

"And  that  is  probably  the  secret  of  its  perfection," 
remarked  Bergan,  meditatively.  "The  loveliest  graces  of 
character — such  as  charity  that  thinketh  no  evil,  and  hope 
that  lives  by  faith,  not  by  sight — are  the  legitimate  chil 
dren  of  suffering.  Then  why  not  the  finer  works  of  art?" 

Astra's  eyes  fell,  and  she  did  not  answer. 

"At  any  rate,"  pursued  Bergan,  "this  'Sunshine'  is 
just  what  I  want  to  brighten  my  office.  I  was  thinking, 
this  very  day,  that  something  must  be  done  to  make  it  less 
dismal.  I  suppose  it  is  for  sale  ?" 

Astra  bent  her  head  a  little  stiffly.  She  doubted  the 
reality  of  this  new-born  desire  for  office  decorations. 


402  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  COEDS. 

He  took  out  his  purse,  and  laid  a  folded  bank-note  on 
the  table.  Pie  expected  that  she  would  not  look  at  it,  until 
after  he  had  gone,  but  she  immediately  took  it  up,  opened 
it,  and  tendered  it  back  to  hyn. 

"It  is  too  much,"  said  she  proudly.  And  her  look 
added,  "  I  am  no  beggar." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  inquired  Bergan,  with  apparent  surprise.  "  I 
thought  it  agreed  tolerably  well  with  the  prices  that  you 
used  to  mention  as  the  least  you  would  receive  for  your 
works,  in  the  future." 

"  I  have  lived  to  grow  wiser,"  replied  Astra. 

"  It  is  all  the  same,"  rejoined  Bergan  composedly,  "  I 
was  about  to  say  that,  as  my  mother  has  long  been  entreat 
ing  me  to  send  her  some  sort  of  a  portrait,  it  occurs  to  me 
that  I  cannot  do  better  than  to  get  you  to  make  a  medallion 
or  a  bust  of  me,  whichever  you  please.  The  balance  of  the 
note  can  go  toward  the  first  payment.  We  will  arrange 
for  the  sittings,  as  soon  as  you  are  at  leisure." 

Astra's  lix>  trembled.  Put  in  this  way,  the  note  might 
be  retained ;  and  no  one  knew  so  well  as  herself  what  an 
amount  of  relit -I'  to  her,  and  of  comfort  to  her  mother,  it 
ensui'ed.  But  her  pride  was  very  sore,  nevertheless,  and 
her  face  was  little  grateful,  as  she  dropped  the  note  on  the 
table,  somewhat  as  if  it  had  burned  her  fingers. 

Bergan  hastened  to  change  the  subject.  "I  am  sorry 
not  to  see  your  mother,"  he  began;  but  Astra  interrupted 
him. 

"  She  would  like  to  see  you  very  much,"  said  she,  "  if 
you  don't  mind  coming  to  her  room.  It  is  several  days 
since  she  has  left  it ;  though  I  really  think  that  she  is  better 
to-day." 

"  Why  should  I  mind  ?"  asked  Bergan,  smiling.  "She 
used  to  call  me  her  son  sometimes ;  though  you  do  lake 
such  pains  to  give  me  to  understand  that  you  utterly  repu 
diate  me  as  a  brother." 

Astra  turned  her  face  aside,  to  conceal  the  sudden  un- 


AN   AIMLESS   STROLL.  403 

bending  of  the  set  mouth.     "Indeed,  I  do  not,"  she  fal 
tered. 

Bergan  drew  her  toward  him,  just  as  a  brother  would 
have  done.  "  Then  you  will  help  me  to  persuade  her  to 
move  into  more  comfortable  quarters,  at  once.  I  promise 
you  that  it  shall  be  arranged  so  carefully  as  to  give  her  the 
least  possible  fatigue." 

Astra  shook  her  head.  "  It  cannot  be ;  it  would  excite 
her  too  much.  Her  disease  is  of  the  heart ;  and  joy  kills 
as  surely  as  sorrow.  When  I  moved  her  here, — being  im 
peratively  forced  to  do  so,  because  I  could  not  afford  to 
stay  where  we  were, — I  determined  that,  let  come  what 
would,  she  should  not  be  stirred  again,  until  she  is  a  great 
deal  better  or — worse.  Thank  you  for  the  kind  thought, 
but  indeed  she  is  best  off  here,  for  the  present, — now  that 
I  have  the  means  of  making  her  tolerably  comfortable." 

In  the  last  sentence,  there  was  some  trace  of  Astra's 
old  self;  and,  glad  to  have  gained  thus  much,  Bergan  fol 
lowed  her  to  Mrs.  Lyte's  bedside. 

If  he  still  cherished  any  belief  in  the  feasibility  of  re 
moving  her,  it  vanished  with  the  first  sight  of  her  face. 
He  wondered  what  could  have  led  Astra  to  think  her  bet 
ter.  Even  to  his  inexperienced  eyes,  the  struggling  breath, 
the  beaded  forehead,  the  ashy  pallor,  indicated  but  too 
plainly  that  the  thread  of  her  life  was  wellnigh  spun. 

Yet  she  was  less  changed,  in  some  respects,  than  Astra. 
Her  smile  had  the  old  sweetness ;  her  face — when  the  ex 
citement  caused  by  his  unexpected  visit  was  calmed  a  little, 
and  she  could  breathe  easier — had  the  old  expression  of 
gentle  resignation.  It  lighted  up,  too,  at  sight  of  him ; — 
as  he  had  reminded  Astra,  she  had  come  to  regard  him 
with  a  half-motherly  affection,  during  his  residence  in  her 
house. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  to  us,"  she  said,  grate 
fully  ;  "  it  seems  a  great  while  since  I  have  seen  any  friendly 
face." 


404  H OLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

"  If  I  had  only  known  that  you  were  in  Savalla,  I 
should  have  come  much  sooner,"  answered  Bergan. 

"And  if  I  had  known  that  you  were  here,"  she  re 
sponded,  "I  should  certainly  have  sent  for  you.  It  is 
strange,  Astra,  that  we  never  happened  to  hear  of  him." 

Astra's  face  flushed  a  little.  "  We  are  not  in  the  way 
of  hearing  news,"  she  replied,  evasively.  "  L'ut  now  that 
he  is  here,  to  sit  with  you  a  few  minutes,  I  will  run  out 
and  get  that  prescription  filled,  which  the  doctor  left  this 
morning." 

Bergan  rose  instantly.     "  Let  me  go,  rather,"  said  he. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Lyte,  "  it  will  do  her  good  to  have 
a  little  run.  Besides,  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Bergan  sat  down  again,  and  Cathie  nestled  to  his  side. 
Nix,  too,  came  and  lay  down  at  his  feet,  quite  in  the  old 
Berganton  fashion. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  continued  Mrs.  Lyte, 
when  Astra  had  left  the  room,  "but  I  am  afraid  it  is 
largely  a  selfish  gladness.  I  am  so  certain  that  you  will 
see  what  can  be  done  for  my  children  after  I  am  gone." 

Bergan  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  she  lifted  her  hand 
with  a  .deprecating  gesture,  and  went  on  : — 

"  Let  me  say  what  I  want  to  say  ;  I  shall  be  so  much 
easier  in  my  mind.  Do  you  know  how  we  came  to  leave 
Berganton  ?  " 

"  I  do  not ;  I  only  heard  of  it  when  I  went  back  there, 
in  the  Fall." 

Mrs.  Lyte  briefly  explained  the  circumstances  which 
had  led  to  the  removal.  She  stated,  furthermore,  that  she 
had  written  to  Major  Bergan,  upon  the  failure  of  the  Bank 
where  her  money  was  invested,  and  inquired  if  he  had  sold 
the  house,  and  whether  there  Avas  any  balance  in  her  favor. 
To  which  lie  replied  that  he  had  done  nothing  about  the 
matter,  and  pi'oposed  to  do  nothing,  at  present;  he  only 
wished  that  she  would  come  back,  and  live  in  it,  us  before. 
73ut  this  was  impossible,  she  had  now  no  means  of  maintain- 


AN   AIMLESS   STROLL.  405 

ing  so  large  and  expensive  a  place.  She  had,  therefore,  writ 
ten  again,  to  the  effect  that  she  asked  nothing  better  than 
the  immediate  foreclostfre  of  the  mortgage,  and  the  sale  of 
the  property.  Would  he  attend  to  it  at  his  earliest  conveni 
ence,  and  forward  her  the  balance  ?  To  this  letter  there 
had  been  no  reply ;  she  took  it  for  granted  that  a  purchaser 
had  not  been  found.  What  she  desired  of  Bergan,  in  the 
event  of  her  death,  which  she  believed  to  be  near  at  hand, 
was  to  hurry  forwai'd  the  sale  of  the  place,  and  secure 
something  for  Astra,  if  possible.  This  he  promised  to  do  ; 
and  he  added,  in  a  tone  that  brought  instant  conviction  to 
her  mind,  and  tears  of  gratitude  to  her  eyes,  that,  however 
this  matter  terminated,  neither  Astra  nor  Cathie  should 
lack  friendly  aid,  at  need. 

When  he  finally  took  his  leave,  Bergan  beckoned  Astra 
to  the  door.  "  Are  you  alone  here  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  Is 
there  no  one  to  share  your  labors  and  your  cares  ?  " 

"  We  brought  our  old  Chloe  with  us,"  replied  Astra ; 
"  she  would  not  be  left  behind,  and  indeed,  I  do  not  know 
what  we  should  have  done  without  her.  But  lately  the 
good  old  creature  has  insisted  upon  going  out  to  do  a 
day's  washing,  now  and  then,  to  bring  something  into  the 
family  purse ;  she  is  out  to-day.  When  she  is  home,  she 
does  all  she  can." 

Bergan  recollected  the  old  slave,  and  doubted  nothing 
of  her  fidelity.  But,  in  the  woful  event  that  he  foresaw, 
Astra  would  need  other  help,  other  sympathy,  he  thought. 

"  Is  there  no  one  you  can  send  for, — no  relative,  no 
friend,  in  Berganton,  or  elsewhere?"  he  persisted. 

"  None,"  replied  Astra.  "  And  what  accommodations 
have  we  for  such  a  friend,  if  we  had  one  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  He  shook  her  hand 
warmly,  told  her  that  he  had  promised  her  mother  to  come 
again  on  the  morrow,  lifted  his  hat,  with  his  usual  courtesy, 
and  went  down  the  street,  in  such  a  maze  of  pity  and  per 
plexity,  that  he  forgot  to  notice  which  way  he  went. 


406  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

"When  he  became  cognizant  of  his  whereabouts,  he  was 
standing  before  a  large,  old-fashioned  mansion  fronting  on 
one  of  the  principal  squares  of  the  %;ity.  On  the  door  was 
a  silver  plate,  bearing  the  name  of  "  DIVA  THANE,  AR 
TIST." 


vn 

ORDERED  STEPS. 

BERGAN  was  much  struck  with  the  fact  that  his  aim 
less  walk — aimless,  at  least,  so  far  as  his  own  inten 
tion  was  concerned — had  first  led  him,  in  virtue  of 
his  meeting  with  Cathie,  to  Mrs.  Lyte's  bedside,  and  next 
to  the  studio  of  Miss  Thane.  Accepting  both  these  lead 
ings  as  parts  of  the  same  providential  plan,  though  he  could 
discern  but  the  slightest  possible  relation  between  them,  he 
knocked  at  the  studio  door. 

"  Come  in ! "  was  the  immediate  response,  in  Miss 
Thane's  clear,  cold  monotone. 

Bergan  pushed  open  the  door,  which  was  a  little  ajar, 
and  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  artist.  She  was 
standing  at  her  easel,  palette  and  brushes  in  hand  ;  and  she 
waited  to  give  several  touches  to  her  work,  before  turning 
toward  her  visitor. 

If  she  felt  any  surprise  at  sight  of  him,  her  face  betrayed 
none.  Yet  it  seemed  to  Bergan  that  some  change  had  come 
over  that  face  since  he  beheld  it  last — a  certain  suggestion  of 
weariness  under  its  languor,  of  dissatisfaction  under  its  chill 
pride — which  he  accepted  as  a  good  augury  for  the  task 
that  he  had  in  hand. 

Miss  Thane  seemed  to  divine,  at  once,  that  his  visit  had 
some  object  other  than  the  pleasure  of  seeing  either  herself 
or  her  pictures.  After  a  few  quiet  words  of  greeting,  she 
rested  one  hand  upon  her  easel,  and  stood  waiting,  calm, 
proud,  and  exceeding  beautiful,  to  be  informed  of  its  na 
ture. 

Bergan  was  scarcely  prepared  to  make  known  his  errand 


408  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

so  abruptly.  He  had  promptly  entered  the  studio,  in  obe 
dience  to  his  first  impulse ;  but  he  had  counted  upon  some 
little  time  thereafter  to  arrange  his  thoughts  and  feel  his 
way,  some  flow  of  conversation  to  be  duly  turned  to  his  ad 
vantage,  or  some  clue  to  the  deep  mystery  of  Miss  Thane's 
sympathies, — possibly,  too,  some  further  light  upon  the  in 
scrutable  design  of  Providence,  in  sending  him  hither. 

After  all,  was  not  the  most  straightforward  course  likely 
to  be  the  best  one  ? 

"  Miss  Thane,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  my  own  volition  has 
had  so  little  to  do  with  bringing  me  here,  that  I  scarcely 
know  why  I  am  come.  But  I  believe  that  it  is  to  try  to  in 
terest  you  in  a  sister  artist — a  sculptor — who  is  in  sore  need 
of  aid  that  you  might  give  her." 

Miss  Thane  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  and  drew  out 
her  purse  ;  but  before  she  could  open  it,  Bergan  stopped 
her  with  a  deprecating  gesture. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "  but  that  sort  of  aid,  I  can  give 
myself,  if  it  be  necessary." 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  then?  "  asked  Miss  Thane,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  Whatever  one  delicate,  refined,  large-hearted  woman 
can  do  for  another,  in  the  way  of  cheer,  encouragement, 
sympathy,  and  consolation." 

Miss  Thane  gave  him  a  long  look  out  of  her  deep  eyes, 
partly  surprised,  partly  meditative. 

"  What  put  it  into  your  head  to  come  to  me  on  such  an 
errand  ?  "  she  finally  asked,  with  a  singular,  half  satirical 
emphasis. 

"  Because  when  I  was  wondering  to  whom  I  could  go," 
answered  Bergan,  "  I  found  myself  standing  before  your 
door.  Because  you  did  me  the  honor,  two  weeks  ago,  to 
ask  me  a  certain  question,  and  I  thought  that  this  might  be 
the  beginning  of  a  better  answer  than  I  was  able  to  give 
you." 

Miss  Thane  slowly  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 


ORDERED    STEPS.  409 

and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  deep  red  gold  of  the  western  hori 
zon,  whence  the  sun  still  shed  a  soft  posthumous  influence 
over  the  earth. 

"  What  does  it  matter,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "  if  I 
do  surrender  somewhat  of  my  freedom  ?  I  have  had  a  fair 
trial  of  an  isolated  life — divested  of  every  irksome  bond, 
burden,  and  duty,  shut  up  to  the  one  friend  that  I  trust,  and 
the  one  occupation  that  I  love — and  what  has  it  done  for  me  ? 
Absolutely  nothing  ;  except  to  make  ine  daily  colder  in 
heart,  and  narrower  in  mind.  Is  it  not  time  to  try  some 
thing  else  ?  " 

She  turned  back  to  Bergan,  and  her  face,  though  it  was 
still  weary,  was  no  longer  proud. 

"  I  am  sensible  of  the  honor  that  you  have  done  me," 
said  she,  with  unusual  gentleness ;  "  I  will  try  to  deserve 
your  good  opinion.  Where  am  I  to  find  the  lady  of  whom 
you  speak,  and  in  what  way  can  I  render  her  the  most  es 
sential  service  ?  " 

Bergan  quietly  placed  a  chair  for  her. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  he,  "  and  let  me  tell  you  the  whole 
story  ;  at  least,  as  far  as  I  know  it  myself." 

As  he  talked,  the  gold  faded  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  gray 
twilight  shadows  crept  into  the  room,  turning  the  pictures 
on  the  walls  into  pale,  vague  outlines,  and  giving  a  won 
derful  softness  to  Miss  Thane's  listening  face.  Nor  did  the 
story  end  until  the  pictures  had  become  indistinguishable 
masses  of  shadow,  and  nothing  was  left  of  the  face  but  its 
deep,  lustrous  eyes.  Its  owner  had  not  once  spoken  ;  and 
it  quite  escaped  Bergan's  notice,  in  the  dimness,  that  she 
gave  a  sudden,  violent  start  when  Mrs.  Lyte's  full  name 
was  mentioned. 

"Thus,  you  see,"  he  concluded,  "it  is  not  only  a  disap 
pointed,  discouraged,  anxious  heart  (soon,  alas  !  to  become 
a  mourning  one)  that  I  commend  to  your  tender  sympathies, 
but  a  sorely  wounded  faith.  If  you  cannot  heal  the  latter, 
do  not,  I  charge  you,  help  to  destroy  it." 
18 


410  HOLDEN   WITH    THE    CORDS. 

"  I  will  not,"  answered  she,  solemnly  ;  "  I  promise  you 
that  I  will  not.  How  could  I,  when  I  am  half  inclined  to 
believe  that  such  faith — unfounded,  illusory  though  it  be — 
is  a  better  thing  than  any  reality  that  AVC  exchange  it  for." 

Bergan  slightly  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  May  I  ask,"  said 
he,  quietly,  "  to  what  reality,  or  realities,  you  refer  ?  " 

"  You  press  me  hard,"  answered  she,  bitterly,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  none,  none  that  I  can  think  of  just  now.  Every 
thing  seems  vague,  unreal,  unsubstantial," 

"  Fall  back  on  faith,"  returned  Bergan,  smiling.  "  If  it 
be  not  a  reality  itself,  it  works  realities.  It  fosters  real 
virtues,  and  inspires  real  heroism ;  by  it  men  live  nobly, 
and  die  courageously.  What  reality  can  do  more  for 
them, — indeed,  Avhat  one  does  so  much  ?  " 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  expecting  an  answer.  Seeing 
that  none  came,  he  bowed,  and  left  her  sitting  there,  gazing 
out  into  the  silent  night. 

On  the  following  morning,  Astra  was  in  her  studio,  busily 
plying  her  needle,  while  her  mother  slept,  when  there  came 
a  light  knock  on  the  door.  Opening  it,  she  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  a  lady  of  such  rare  and  remarkable  beauty, 
that  she  stood  motionless,  lost  in  wonder  and  admiration. 

The  stranger  bent  her  head  with  the  stately,  yet  friendly, 
grace  of  one  princess  to  another;  and  a  smile  just  touched 
her  lips,  and  then  seemed  to  sink  into  her  eyes,  shining 
farther  and  farther  down'in  their  clear  depths,  until  it  van 
ished  from  sight. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  looking  into  your 
studio  ?  "  asked  she,  in  a  voice  as  perfect  as  her  face  ;  "  I 
have  heard  so  much  of  its  marvels,  that  I  am  desirous  of 
seeing  them  for  myself." 

Astra  mutely  made  way ;  her  visitor  glided  into  the 
room,  cast  a  quick,  comprehensive  glance  around,  and  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  statue  of  Mercury. 

"  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  you,"  she  said  to  Astra,  "  but 


ORDERED   STEPS.  411 

just  go  on  with  whatever  you  are  about,  and  allow  me  to 
study  this  at  my  leisure." 

Astra  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  took  up  the  work 
that  she  had  dropped, — one  of  Cathie's  much-enduring 
aprons,  that  she  was  trying  to  darn  into  some  semblance  of 
respectability.  But  she  could  not  help  stealing  an  occasional 
glance  at  the  clear-cut  profile  of  her  guest,  until,  all  her 
artistic  instincts  being  thoroughly  aroused,  she  was  fain 
to  seize  upon  crayon  and  cardboard,  and  make  sure  of  the 
lovely  outline,  ere  it  should  vanish,  as  she  expected  it 
would  soon  do,  utterly  and  forever  from  her  sight. 

The  guest,  meanwhile,  studied  the  Mercury  in  profound 
silence.  Yet  Astra  soon  felt  that  an  uncommonly  deep  and 
delicate  discernment  was  brought  to  bear  on  her  work,  capa 
ble  of  accurately  measuring  both  its  excellences  and  its  faults. 
There  was  something  inspiriting  in  the  very  thought, — it 
was  so  seldom  that  her  sculpture  was  favored  with  a  really 
intelligent  glance  !  Pier  eyes  brightened,  her  hands  recov 
ered  their  cunning,  the  crayon  sketch  grew  into  lifelike- 
ness  without  effort,  almost  without  consciousness,  save 
when  she  stopped  to  marvel,  now  and  then,  at  its  exceed 
ing  beauty  and  delicacy.  Yet  it  did  no  more  than  justice 
to  the  original, — scarcely  that,  indeed; — where  did  she  get 
that  face,  and  who  could  she  be ! 

She  had  left  the  Mercury  now,  after  a  few — a  very  few 
words  of  commendation,  yet  spoken  so  cordially  and  dis- 
criminately  as  to  be  worth  volumes  of  ordinary  praise  to 
Astra ;  and  she  was  looking  gravely  into  the  upturned  eyes 
of  the  Cherub.  Glancing  from  it  to  its  creator,  she  said, 
with  a  faint  smile ; — 

"  I  wish  you  could  put  that  look  into  my  face." 

Astra  shook  her  head.  "  I  could  not  put  it  anywhere 
now"  she  answered,  drearily. 

The  stranger  gave  her  a  compassionate  glance.  "  I 
wonder,"  said  she,  musingly,  "  whether  it  is  better  to  have 
had  such  faith  and  lost  it,  or  never  to  have  had  it  at  all." 


412  IIOLDEX    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

"  It  is  better  to  have  lost  it,"  replied  Astra  quickly,  and 
with  a  slight  shudder.  "  One  can  live  in  the  hope  of  find 
ing  it  again." 

The  visitor  sighed,  and  turned  to  look  at  the  sketches 
on  the  wall. 

By  and  by,  she  slid  easily  into  a  discourse  about  various 
art-matters  ;  holding  Astra  spellbound, for  awhile,  with  the 
fluent  richness  of  her  diction,  and  the  extent  of  her  know 
ledge.  Nor  was  Astra  allowed  to  listen  only.  A  certain 
graphic  portrayal  of  art-life  in  Italy  having  stirred  her  to 
the  depths,  and  kindled  the  old  fire  and  energy  of  enthusiasm 
in  her  eyes,  she  was  skilfully  drawn  on  to  talk  of  herself  and 
her  work,  her  aims,  longings,  limitations,  and  needs,  as  she 
had  never  talked  before,  because  she  had  never  before  met 
with  so  understanding  and  sympathetic  an  auditor. 

In  the  midst  of  one  of  her  animated  sentences,  a  low 
moan  was  heai'd  from  the  inner  room.  "  Excuse  me,"  said 
Astra  hurriedly,  amazed  to  see  how  completely  she  had 
forgotten  her  cares,  fears,  and  griefs,  in  the  magic  of  the 
stranger's  presence, — "Excuse  me,  I  must  go  to  my 
mother." 

Mrs.  Lyte  had  waked,  as  was  too  often  the  case,  in  a 
spasm  of  pain.  Astra  hastened  to  call  Cathie  from  the 
kitchen  to  assist  the  laboring  breath  with  gentle  Avafts  of 
air  from  a  fan,  w*hile  she  herself  measui'ed  some  drops  of  a 
soothing  mixture,  and  lifted  her  mother's  head  on  her  arm, 
to  enable  her  to  swallow  and  to  breathe  more  easily. 
Several  anxious  moments  had  passed  thus,  in  silence  broken 
only  by  the  painful  respirations  of  the  invalid,  when  a  low, 
sweet  strain  of  melody  stole  so  gently  into  the  room  that 
Astra  could  not  tell,  at  first,  from  whence  it  came.  So  soft 
was  it  that  it  melted  into  the  ear  without  making  any 
apparent  demand  npon  the  attention,  yet  so  clear  that  not 
one  liquid  note  was  lost.  The  swollen  veins  of  Mrs.  Ly  te's 
forehead  subsided ;  her  chest  ceased  its  agonized  heaving ; 
a  peaceful,  happy  smile  broke  over  her  face. 


ORDERED   STEPS.  413 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  wonderingly,  when  the  strain 
ended, — not  abruptly,  but  gradually  growing  fainter,  until 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  just  at  what  point  sound  became 
silence. 

Astra  whispered  softly  that  she  had  left  a  strange  visi 
tor  in  the  studio,  who  appeared  to  be  singing  unconsciously 
to  herself. 

"  If  she  would  only  sing  again  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Lyte, 
wistfully. 

With  her  usual  impulsiveness,  Cathie  rushed  to  the 
stu  Jio  door.  "  Mamma  wishes  you  would  sing — "  she 
began,  and  then  stopped  short,  no  less  surprised  and  fasci 
nated  by  the  face  that  met  her  gaze  than  her  sister  had 
been. 

The  stranger  reflected  for  a  moment,  then  her  voice  again 
pervaded  the  air,  as  with  the  very  soul  of  restful  melody. 
As  she  sang,  the  child  moved  slowly  toward  her,  drawn 
as  irresistibly  as  the  magnet  to  the  loadstone,  till  she  stood 
close  to  her  side,  encircled  by  her  arm,  and  gazing  at  her 
with  round,  wondering  eyes.  As  the  song  ceased,  she  slid 
her  hand  half-curiously,  half-timidly  over  her  shoulder. 

"Have  you  wings?"  she  asked,  earnestly.  "Did  you 
fly  down  ?" 

Before  the  visitor  could  reply,  except  by  a  swift  expres 
sion  of  something  like  pain  that  flitted  across  her  face, 
Astra  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mother  wishes  to  see  you,  and  thank  you,"  she  said. 
"  Will  you  step  this  way  ?  " 

The  lady  rose,  and  moved  quietly  into  the  inner  room. 
At  sight  of  her  face,  Mrs.  Lyte  gave  a  violent  start;  the 
thanks  she  was  about  to  speak  died  on  her  lips  ;  she  could 
only  cry  out  in  amazement ; — "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

The  stranger  knelt  by  the  bedside,  and  took  both  Mis. 
Lyte's  hands  in  her  soft,  cool  grasp.  "  1  am  the  daughter 
of  your  runaway  sister,  Aunt  Katie,"  she  answered,  "  and 
my  name  is  Godha  Thane."'' 


414  HOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

"  But  she  died,  and  she  left  no  child,"  said  Mrs.  Lyte, 
incredulously. 

"  She  died  in  giving  me  birth,"  returned  Diva,  with 
convincing  positiveness.  "  I  have  long  suspected  that  my 
father  did  not  let  you  know,  he  never  forgot  the  opposition 
to  his  marriage  ;  besides,  he  was  jealous  of  his  only  child's 
affections.  You  must  needs  forgive  him, — for  he  is  dead." 

Several  questions  followed,  on  Mrs.  Lyte's  part;  to 
which  Diva  gave  long,  detailed  answers,  skilfully  contrived 
to  satisfy  her  aunt's  curiosity,  tranquillize  her  emotions, 
and  bring  her,  in  a  brief  space,  to  a  tolerably  peaceful  and 
composed  state  of  mind. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  before  I  go  ?  "  she  then 
asked. 

"  Nothing,  dear,  unless  you  will  sing  to  me — a  hymn  ; 
there  are  tones  in  your  voice  which  are  more  soothing  than 
any  anodyne." 

Diva  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  sent  her  thoughts 
back — a  long,  long  way,  it  seemed  to  her — to  a  period  in  her 
childhood,  when  she  had  been  under  the  care  of  a  certain 
faithful  nurse,  afterwards  discharged  by  her  father  for  put 
ting  foolish,  superstitious  notions — as  he  averred — into  her 
head.  There  she  found  two  or  three  hymns  ;  keeping  tena 
cious  hold  of  her  memory,  in  virtue  of  their  early  grafting 
therein  ;  which  she  sang  in  such  soft,  even  tones,  that  Mrs. 
Lyte  was  first  calmed,  and  then  irresistibly  lulled  to  sleep. 

The  two  cousins  stole  out  of  the  room  together.  In  the 
studio,  Diva  put  her  arms  around  Astra  and  kissed  her 
tenderly. 

"  Having  found  you,  my  little  cousin,  my  art  sister," 
said  she,  smiling,"  I  shall  never  let  you  go  !  ' 


VIII. 

THOUGH    UK    SLAY. 

MISS  THANE  had  all  along  understood  that  a  meet 
ing  with  her  mother's  only  and  twin  sister,  either 
by  accident  or  design,  was  quite  within  the  scope 
of  possibilities.  She  had  even  regarded  it  as  perhaps  the 
brightest  prospect  which  the  future  afforded  her,  in  case  her 
present  experiment  in  life  should  fail  to  give  her  satisfac 
tion,  or  her  heart  should  suddenly  utter  an  importunate  cry 
for  that  cup  of  cold  water  of  human  affection,  which  is  only 
to  be  tasted  in  the  society  of  one's  own  kin.  Amid  the 
gray  monotony  of  her  existence,  she  had  often  pictured  that 
meeting  to  herself  in  a  variety  of  pleasant  coloring  and 
dramatic  shapes  ;  but  never,  it  is  safe  to  say,  in  the  solemn 
lights  und  sober  shadows  in  which  it  finally  took  its  place 
among  the  memorable  scenes  of  her  life. 

Yet  in  no  other  way  could  it  have  operated  so  power 
fully  to  awaken  the  instinct  of  kinship  within  her,  to  7nelt 
her  reserve,  to  draw  out  her  dormant  sympathies, — in 
short,  to  call  forth  whatever  was  deepest,  richest,  and 
womaniiest  in  her  nature.  And  certainly,  in  no  other  way 
could  it  have  bi'ought  so  strong  and  subtle  an  influence  to 
bear  upon  the  sombre  doubts  and  chill  infidelities  of  her 
mind  ;  setting  over  against  her  cool,  speculative  belief  in  a 
blind  Chance  or  an  inflexible  Fate,  Mrs.  Lyte's  calm  trust 
in  the  goodness  of  God's  providence,  against  the  blight 
ing,  chilling,  unbeauteous  effects  of  suffering  on  her  own 
heart,  the  gracious  fruitage  of  patience,  contentment,  and 
love,  ripening  under  its  touch  in  Mrs.  Lyte's,  against  her 
own  dim  outlook  into  an  unknown  future,  her  aunt's  firm 


410  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

expectation  of  the  eternal  weight  of  glory.  The  contrast 
was  too  striking  not  to  be  noticed,  its  testimony  in  favor  of 
faith  over  unbelief  too  strong  to  be  ignored.  Daily,  as  she 
watched  by  her  aunt's  bedside,  questions  that  she  had  once 
settled,  or  laid  aside  as  incapable  of  settlement,  came  up 
again,  to  be  examined  in  new  and  diviner  lights.  Daily  the 
good  work  which  Bergan  had  been  instrumental  in  begin 
ning  in  her  heart,  went  forward, — not  like  the  work  of 
doubt,  tearing  down  what  it  could  not  rebuild,  and  taking 
away  bread  to  give  a  stone, — but  bringing  order  out  of  con 
fusion,  proportion  out  of  inequality,  solidity  out  of  disinte 
gration. 

On  the  other  hand,  her  advent  was  no  less  beneficial,  in 
its  way,  to  her  aunt  and  cousins.  Not  to  speak  of  the  ma 
terial  comforts  and  luxuries  which  she  managed  so  delicately 
to  introduce  into  the  sick-room,  as  to  make  them  seem  much 
like  direct  gifts  of  Providence,  without  any  intervening 
hand,  she  brought  into  their  forlorn,  narrow,  monotonous 
life  an  element  of  variety  and  interest,  as  well  as  of  personal 
helpfulness,  that  was  sorely  needed.  Mrs.  Lyte  soon  grew 
to  depend  upon  her  constant  presence  and  care  scarcely 
less  than  upon  Astra's.  She  never  wearied  of  searching 
her  beautiful  face  for  fitful  touches  of  resemblance  to  the 
darling  twin  sister,  whose  runaway  marriage  and  subse 
quent  death  had  been  the  great  grief  of  her  own  earlier 
years,  nor  of  drawing  out  such  facts  in  relation  to  that  sister's 
short  married  life,  and  Diva's  birth,  as  the  latter  had  been 
able  to  gather  from  others,  and  store  in  her  memory.  She 
was  deeply  interested,  too,  in  Diva's  own  history, — her 
motherless  childhood,  her  long  sojourn  in  Europe,  her  art 
studies,  her  reasons  for  the  isolated  life  that  she  had  been 
leading  of  late.  Especially  did  she  delight  in  hearing  her 
sing.  Diva  might  busy  herself  in  whatever  part  of  the 
house's  narrow  precinct  she  pleased,  if  only  her  voice  floated 
into  the  sick-room,  and  sweetened  the  air  with  the  notes 
and  words  of  some  favorite  "hymn  of  the  ages,"  or  the  soft 


THOUGH    HE    SLAV.  417 

Italian  melodies  that  she  had  learned  in  their  native  land. 
While  the  lovely  voice  kept  on,  Mrs.  Lyte  lay  lapped  in 
smiling  content,  or  slept  in  perfect  tranquillity,  lulled  more 
effectually  than  by  any  anodyne. 

Nor  was  Astra  any  less  ready  to  accept  her  kinswoman 
as  a  timely  boon  and  blessing.  It  was  nut  only  an  unspeak 
able  relief  to  feel  a  part  of  her  heavy  burden  of  care  lifted 
from  her  shoulders  by  hands  so  willing,  so  tender,  and  with 
so  undoubted  a  right  to  the  privilege;  it  was  also  a  rare 
delight  to  have  such  thoroughly  congenial  companionship. 
As  for  Cathie,  her  heart  was  easily  won, — all  the  more  that 
she  never  seemed  to  quite  rid  herself  of  her  first  impression 
that  the  new-comer  was  celestial  rather  than  human,  and  to 
be  adored  accordingly.  In  short,  Diva  soon  found  for  her 
self  so  fit,  definite,  and  essential  a  place  in  all  these  hearts 
and  lives  as  to  suggest  the  idea  that  it  must  have  been  pre 
pared  expressly,  and  kept  waiting  for  her — she  knew  not 
how  long.  Nay,  more, — she  must  have  been  prepared  for 
it  j  carefully  fitted,  by  many  sad  and  stern  circumstances, 
for  this  exchange  of  helpful  influences,  for  her  part  in  that 
solemn  symphony  of  events  which  was  rolling  its  profound 
harmonies  through  Mrs.  Lyte's  sick-chamber. 

For  the  invalid  did  not  rally.  After  one  week  of 
apparent  pause,  her  life's  lapse  went  steadily  on.  Day  by 
day,  she  weakened  and  wasted;  day  by  day,  the  spirit 
loosened  its  mortal  garments,  and  made  itself  ready  to  put 
on  immortality;  day  by  day,  her  mind  let  go  something 
of  earthly  cares,  anxieties,  wishes,  and  fears,  and  fixed  itself 
more  firmly  upon  the  Rock  of  Ages,  and  the  rest  that  rc- 
maineth.  Nothing  of  life  seemed  left,  by  and  by,  but 
love;  making  manifest,  by  this  true  "survival  of  the  fit 
test,"  its  Divine  origin  and  destiny. 

One  summer  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  flooding  all 

the  earth  and  sky  with  the  glory  of  his  departure,  Bcrgan 

knocked  at  the  door  of  Astra's  studio,  according  to  his 

daily  habit,  to  inquire  if  he  could  be  of  any  service.     No 

18* 


418 


HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 


answer  being  returned  to  his  knock,  he  let  himself  in  and 
went  softly  to  the  bedroom  door.  A  scene  too  beautiful 
to  be  called  sad,  though  infinitely  solemn,  met  his  view. 

Astra  Avas  seated  on  the  bed,  holding  her  mother  in  her 
arms,  to  afford  her  a  grateful  change  of  position.  Cathie 
lay  curled  up  at  the  invalid's  feet,  with  her  large  eyes  fixed 
on  the  rapt,  hushed  face, — the  half-closed  eyes  and  slightly 
parted  lips.of  which  suggested  a  soft  sinking  into  that  sweet 
slumber,  which  is  yet  not  so  much  slumber  as  a  happy  dream. 
Diva  knelt  by  the  bedside,  with  her  aunt's  Land  in  hers, 
singing  in  tones  that  thrilled  him  through  and  through, 
much  as  he  had  learned  in  these  days,  of  the  marvellous 
beauty  and  pathos  of  her  voice ; — 

"  When  I  rise  to  worlds  unknown, 
And  beliold  Thee  on  Thy  Throne, 
Rock  of  Ages,   cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee !  " 

As  the  last  note  died  away,  he  stepped  forward  and 
l;fted  the  unconscious  form  from  Astra's  arms.  She  looked 
up  at  him  wonderingly. 

"The  earthly  hymn  was  very  sweet,"  said  he  gently, 
"but the  song  of  the  redeemed  in  Paradise  is  sweeter  still." 

Still  she  seemed  not  to  understand.  What  words  were 
at  once  tender  and  solemn  enough  for  the  full  explanation  ? 
None  but  those  of  inspiration ;  at  once  old  and  fresh ; 
having  poured  their  balm  all  along  down  through  the  cen 
turies,  yet  falling  on  each  newly  bereaved  heart,  as  if  still 
moist  and  cool  with  the  dew  of  their  birth.  Reverently  he 
quoted : — 

" '  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord  from 
henceforth :  Yea,  saith  the  Spirit,  that  they  may  rest  from 
their  labors  ;  and  their  works  do  follow  them.' ': 

Mrs.  Lyte  was  taken  to  Berganton,  and  laid  in  the 
churchyard  by  her  husband's  side,  amid  much  kindred  dust. 


THOUGH    HE    SLAY.  4:19 

Bcrgan  accompanied  the  small  funeral  train  to  within 
two  or  three  miles  of  the  village,  and  then  turned  back ; 
in  obedience  to  Astra's  wish,  as  expressed  to  him  through 
Diva  Thane.  The  poor  girl  remembered  in  what  way  her 
name  and  his  had  been  connected,  and  naturally  shrank 
from  anything  that  might  seem  tb  give  it  confirmation. 
But  as  the  train  passed  the  avenue  to  Bergan  Hall,  the 
Major  wheeled  into  the  vacant  place  behind  the  carriage  of 
the  chief  mourners,  assisted  them  out  at  the  gate  of  the 
cemetery,  and  offered  Astra  his  arm. 

"  I  am  your  father's  nearest  living  relative,"  said  he, 
huskily,  "  and  though  I  behaved  like  a  brute  to  your 
mother  at  one  time,  I  have  been  sorry  enough  for  it  since, 
to  have  a  right  to  follow  her  to  the  grave." 

Many  of  Mrs.  Lyte's  old  friends  and  neighbors  gath 
ered  round  to  assist  in  the  last  solemn  rites,  and  some  of 
them  came  afterward  to  say  a  few  words  of  sympathy  and 
regret  to  Astra.  She  was  not  surprised  that  Doctor  Remy 
was  not  of  the  number,  but  she  did  wonder  a  little  that  she 
saw  nothing  of  Carice.  She  had  observed  Mrs.  Bergan 
standing  near  the  foot  of  the  grave,  looking  strangely  old 
and  altered  ;  but  she  seemed  to  have  disappeared  as  soon  as 
the  service  was  ended. 

Having  conducted  her  back  to  the  carriilge,  and  seated 
her  therein,  Major  Bergan  took  a  folded  paper  from  her 
pocket,  toi'e  it  in  pieces,  and  laid  the  fragments  on  her  lap. 

"There  it  is,"  said  he;  "  and  I  wish  that  my  hand  had 
been  sawed  off  before  I  ever  wrote  to  your  mother,  to  tell 
her  of  its  existence.  The  place  is  yours  now,  free  and  un- 
incumbered,  to  do  what  you  like  with.  Good  bye ;  and 
don't  bear  malice,  if  you  can  help  it." 

He  gave  her  no  opportunity  to  reply,  but  signalled  to 
the  coachman  to  drive  on.  Looking  back,  she  saw  him 
standing  on  the  same  spot,  with  uncovered  headj  watching 
the  carriage  until  it  was  out  of  sight, 

She  was  in  nowise  disposed  to  bear  malice.     She  remem- 


420  HOLDEN   WITH    THE    CORDS. 

bered  too  well  how  glad  she  had  been,  at  the  time,  of  an 
available  pretext  for  leaving  Berganton  ;  besides,  the  Major 
had  certainly  made  all  possible  amends  for  his  hasty  action. 

Moreover,  Mrs.  Lyte's  death-bed  had  not  been  without 
its  softening  and  salutary  effect  upon  her  mind,  also. 
Although  she  had  fallen,  for  a  time,  into  that  saddest  of 
all  infidelities — a  distrust  of  God's  goodness  to  His  .chil 
dren — the  last  lovely  moments  of  her  mother's  life,  the  last 
grateful,  joyous  words  from  her  mother's  lips,  and  the  still 
brightness  of  her  mother's  dead  face,  had  set  her  feet — for 
a  little  while  at  least — on  those  Heights  of  Contemplation, 
whence  life  is  seen  to  be  good  and  valuable,  not  for  what 
it  is,  but  for  what  it  shapes  out ;  not  for  the  materials  that 
it  heaps  together,  or  the  tools  that  it  uses,  but  for  the  char 
acter  which  it  moulds  unto  perfection,  the  soul  which  it 
slowly  chisels  into  beauty  and  dignity  and  strength.  So 
viewed,  these  last  months  of  adversity  became  but  the  fine, 
finishing  touches  of  the  Master's  hand,  to  Mrs.  Lyte's 
already  lovely  spirit,  and  Major  Bergan  but  one  of  the 
blind,  necessary  instruments,  operating  better  than  he 
knew  or  willed. 

And  come  what  would,  Astra  could  nevermore  forget 
that  broad  view  of  the  real  work  and  object  of  life's  events ; 
faith  would  ever  after  be  easier  for  those  moments  of  clear 
sight.  She  came  back  from  her  mother's  grave  with  a 
bereaved  heart,  but  with  a  spirit  more  at  rest  than  it  had 
been  for  many  months ;  and  her  face  wore  the  same  expres 
sion  of  gentle,  sweet  resignation,  which  had  been  the  pre 
vailing  characteristic  of  her  mother's  for  years. 

She  came  back — but  not  to  the  dingy  little  house,  nor 
the  desolate  rooms,  and  certainly  not  to  the  straitened  circum 
stances.  Miss  Thane  had  taken  Bergan  into  her  confidence, 
on  the  day  before,  and  asked  the  favor  of  his  superinten 
dence  of  certain  final  steps  toward  the  accomplishment  of 
a  plan  that  she  had  conceived  and  partly  executed.  Money 
and  good-will,  working  together,  usually  achieve  wonders 


THOUGH    HE    SLAY.  421 

in  comparatively  short  space  of  time  ;  as  the  result  of  the  ir 
present  cooperation,  Astra  was  set  down  at  Miss  Thane's 
door  on  her  return  from  Berganton,  late  at  night,  and  ush 
ered  into  a  suite  of  rooms,  opposite  Diva's  own,  handsomely 
fitted  up  for  the  accommodation  of  herself  and  Cathie. 
One  was  a  studio,  to  which  all  her  own  pictures,  statues, 
and  other  artistic  belongings  had  been  cai'efully  ti'ansferred, 
and  skilfully  arranged  to  produce  an  accustomed  and  home 
like  effect.  Another  was  a  pleasant  little  parlor,  with  her 
books  and  her  work-basket  on  the  centre-table,  to  lend  it  a 
familiar  grace  ;  and  in  the  bedroom  beyond,  her  faithful  old 
Chloe  was  waiting,  with  joyful  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  welcome 
and  to  attend  upon  her. 

Astra  turned  to  her  cousin,  and  tried  to  speak;  but  the 
too  heavily  freighted  words  were  slow  in  coming  forth,  and 
Diva  anticipated  them  by  taking  both  her  hands  in  her?, 
and  saying  gently ; — 

"  We  are  sisters,  now,  Astra:  children  of  twin  mothers, 
and  left  alone  in  the  world, — I  more  completely,  even,  than 
you ;  what  better  thing  can  we  do,  at  least  for  the  present, 
than  to  unite  our  forces,  having  one  home,  and  living,  lov 
ing,  and  laboring  together  for  the  same,  or  kindred  ends  ? 
And  Cathie  shall  be  our  joint  charge ;  that,%aving  two 
watchful  elder  sisters,  she  may  never  know,  even  partially, 
what  I  know  so  well,  the  misery  of  a  motherless  childhood. 
Is  it  a  compact  1 " 

Astra  bowed  her  head  in  acquiescence,  and  her  eyes 
shone  bright  through  grateful  teai's.  She  was  relieved  be 
yond  measure,  to  know  that  she  was  not  to  face  the  world 
single-handed.  The  loneliness  that  she  had  so  dreaded 
was  not  to  be  encountered,  the  heavy  responsibility  of  her 
little  sister's  care  and  training  was  to  be,  in  some  degree, 
shared.  In  Diva's  strength  and  steadfastness  of  character, 
which  she  felt  by  intuition,  and  in  its  sweetness,  which  she 
had  found  out  at  her  mother's  bedside,  as  very  few  had 
done  before  her,  there  would  be  all  needful  protection, 


422  IIOLDKN    WITH   THE    CORDS. 

aid,  and  comfort ;  while,  in  its  subtle  quality  of  a  wise  and 
delicate  reserve,  there  was  ample  assurance  of  respect  for 
her  own  individuality,  freedom  for  her  own  way  of  thought 
and  work.  Finally,  thanks  to  Major  Bergan's  generous 
action  in  respect  of  the  mortgage,  she  need  not  fear  to  be 
a  burden  on  her  cousin.  Either  by  sale  or  lease,  the  place 
could  be  made  to  yield  her  a  fixed  moderate  income,  and 
her  own  labor  Avould  do  the  rest. 

She  did  not  suspect  the  extent  of  Diva's  resources,  nor 
what  pleasant  plans  for  her  own  and  Cathie's  happiness  and 
advantage  she  was  turning  over  in  her  mind.  Of  these 
tilings  Diva  would  breathe  no  word,  until  the  sisterhood  of 
which  she  had  spoken  had  become  so  real  and  firm  a  bond 
as  to  preclude  any  sense  of  obligation. 

Meanwhile,  the  fact  of  living  no  more  to  herself,  of  hav 
ing  some  one  else  to  think  of,  to  care  for,  to  comfort  and 
cheer,  was  doing  wonderfully  effective  work  in  clearing  and 
softening  Diva's  own  character, — in  uprooting  the  weeds 
which  had  chiefly  testified  to  the  richness  of  the  underlying 
soil  heretofore,  and  giving  the  plants  of  grace  leave  to 
branch  out  and  blossom  and  bear  fruit.  Daily,  as  Bergan 
met  her,  in  his  visits  to  Astra's  studio,  or  his  walks,  he  saw 
that  something  was  gone  from  the  chill  pride  and  weariness 
of  her  old  expression,  something  added  of  sweetness,  soft 
ness,  and  benignity,  yet  without  any  loss  of  that  still  and 
stately  grace,  in  which  had  subsisted  so  potent  a  charm. 
Daily,  too,  he  marvelled  at  her  increasingly  magnificent 
beauty ;  over  which,  none  the  less,  still  lingered  some  faint 
shadow  from  the  past,  like  the  soft  haze  hanging  over  an 
autumn  landscape,  and  constituting  its  last,  consummate 
grace.  He  could  not  help  wondering  whence  that  shadow 
came,  and  how  it  was  to  go,  since  it  always  gave  him  an 
indefinable  impression  of  being  connected  with  his  own 
destiny. 

One  day  he  met  her  in  the  street  alone,  but,  as  he  never 
presumed  in  the  least  upon  the  half  confidential  relations 


THOUGH    HE    SLAY.  423 

into  which  circumstances  had  thrown  them,  he  was  passing 
on  with  a  courteous  bow,  when  she  stopped  him. 

"  Mr.  Arling,"  she  said,  flushing  slightly,  but  in  very 
clear,  musical  tones,  "  I  have  much  to  thank  you  for,  but 
most  of  all  for  the  promise  which  you  made  me  at  Farview, 
some  weeks  ago ;  and  which,  I  doubt  not,  you  have  consci 
entiously  performed.  How  much  that  performance  has  had 
to  do  with  the  important  events  that  have  taken  place 
since,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  it  is  certain  that  I  discern  an  order, 
a  sequence,  a  relation  of  means  to  an  end,  during  these  last 
weeks,  which  I  have  never  before  been  able  to  discover 
in  the  events  of  my  life, — perhaps  because  my  days  have 
never  before  been  so  regularly  and  earnestly  recommended 
to  loving  Divine  guidance.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  time  of 
which  you  spoke  has  come ;  I  have  learned  to  pray  for  my 
self — and  for  others.  Thank  you  again,  and  good  evening." 

It  was  one  of  her  peculiarities,  resulting  probably  from 
some  years  of  residence  abroad,  that  she  seldom  gave  her 
hand  to  a  gentleman.  Now,  however,  she  offered  it  to 
Bergan,  for  the  second  time,  as  he  remembered  ;  and  again, 
as  before,  lie  had  a  curious  presentiment  that  within  that 
white  hand  there  lay  an  invisible,  but  precious-^gift  for  him, 
waiting  its  appointed  time. 


IX. 

MISTAKES. 

r  1 1  BE  summer  ran  its  course,  and  came  to  an  end.  With 
1  the  first  frost  of  autumn,  Hubert  Arling  arrived  in 
Savalla,  to  pay  a  visit  of  indefinite  extent  to  his 
brother.  A  few  days  after,  Coralie,  newly  returned  from 
Farview,  called  at  the  office,  expecting  to  find  her  father 
there,  according  to  appointment ;  but  found  only  Bergan, 
as  it  appeared,  writing  in  his  usual  place.  He  rose,  bowed, 
and  finally  took  her  offered  hand,  with  what  seemed  to  her 
an  odd  mixture  of  hesitation  and  embarrassment,  while  she 
poured  forth  greetings,  thanks,  and  questions. 

"  You  are  looking  wonderfully  well,"  she  concluded ; 
"  one  would  think  you  had  been  rusticating  in  the  moun 
tains,  instead  of  spending  a  hot  and  lonely  summer  in  the 
city.  But  I  suppose  that  you  are  lonely  no  longer ;  you 
must  be  very  glad  to  have  your  brother  with  you ;  my 
father  told  me  of  his  arrival." 

He  looked  much  amused.  "  I  suspect  that  /  am  my 
brother,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  But  I  am  not  my  brother 
whom  you  take  me  for.  I  wish  I  were, — to  have  the  honor 
of  your  acquaintance." 

It  was  Coralie's  turn  to  look  embarrassed.  "  I  thought 
— is  it  not  Mr.  Arling  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Arling — Hubert  Ailing,  at  your  service. 
Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

Coralie  was  so  much  amazed,  that  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  her  to  decide,  at  the  moment,  whether  he  could 
do  anything  for  her  or  not.  But  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Youle 
and  Bergan  relieved  her  from  the  necessity  of  answering, 


MISTAKES.  425 

and  gave  her  opportunity  to  compare  the  brothers  at  her 
leisure.  Unquestionably,  they  were  singularly  alike,  in 
personal  appearance,  manner,  and  somewhat,  even,  in  mind. 
Only,  when  seen  together,  Bcrgan  was  found  to  be  so  much 
older  and  graver  of  aspect — far  more  than  was  justified  by 
his  two  years  of  seniority — that  she  wondered  how  she 
could  ever  have  mistaken  one  for  the  other.  And,  cer 
tainly,  there  was  a  rare  chai'm  about  Bergan's  gravity,  a 
singular  fascination  in  looking  into  his  deep,  thoughtful, 
all-observant  eyes,  and  conjecturing  what  disappointment 
or  sorrow  lay  darkly  underneath.  Still,  Hubert's  buoyancy 
and  animation  were  wonderfully  taking,  too,  in  their  way ; 
and  her  youthfulness  sprang  involuntarily  forward  to  meet 
his.  On  the  whole,  she  was  glad  to  know  that  Mr.  Arling 
had  a  brother  every  way  so  worthy  of  him. 

Before  she  left,  the  brothers  received  and  accepted  an 
invitation  from  Mr.  Youle  to  dine  with  him.  But  for  Hu 
bert's  sake,  Bergan  would  gladly  have  declined  it.  Hav 
ing  once  introduced  his  brother  into  pleasant  society,  how 
ever,  he  could  leave  him  to  make  his  own  way  in  it, — as  he 
was  fully  qualified  to  do. 

When  the  door  closed1  on  the  father  and  4^ughter,  Hu 
bert  looked  at  his  bi-other,  and  smiled  meaningly. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me?"  he  asked. 

"  What  should  I  tell  ?  "  rejoined  Bergan,  composedly. 

"  That  your  future  was  likely  to  atone  so  prettily  and 
pleasantly  for  your  past." 

Bergan  looked  grave.  "  Not  another  word  of  that, 
Hubert,  if  you  please.  The  past  is  not  atoned  for,  in  that 
sense ;  in  another,  I  hope  it  may  be.  Miss  Coralie  is,  to 
me,  simply  my  kind  old  partner's  very  admirable  and 
estimable  daughter." 

Hubert  looked  half  incredulously  into  his  eyes,  but 
there  was  no  resisting  the  strong  confirmation  of  their 
quiet,  steady,  answering  gaze. 

"  But,  Bcrgan,  you  are  a  goose  !  "  he  broke  out. 


426  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

"  At  your  service,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  bow  of  mock 
courtesy. 

"  Pshaw  !  Then,  if  I  go  and  trade  on  your  capital,  you 
will  never  call  me  to  account?" 

"  Never." 

Hubert  held  out  his  hand ;  Bergan  gave  it  a  firm,  strong 
clasp.  There  was  not  another  word ;  they  understood  each 
other. 

In  the  midst  of  the  desultory  c.iat  that  followed,  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door;  and  in  answer  to  Bergau's 
prompt  "  Come  in,"  his  former  client,  Unwick,  entered. 

"  My  brother,"  explained  Bergan,  as  the  new  comer 
looked  a  little  hesitatingly  at  Hubert.  "  Would  you  like 
to  see  me  alone  ?  " 

"As  you  please,"  replied  Unwick.  "It  is  your  busi 
ness  rather  than  mine  that  brings  me  here ;  if  anything  so 
vague  and  indefinite  can  be  called  business." 

"  Then,  proceed.  I  have  no  secrets  from  my  brother. 
Will  you  tako  a  chair  ?  " 

Unwick  sat  down,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"  It  is  a  long  story  ;  but  I  will  make  it  as  brief  as  I  can. 
You  know  that  my  cousin  Varley.  is  now  in  prison,  under 
sentence  of  death  for  the  murder  of  which  1  came  so  near 
to  being  convicted  myself, — and  should  have  been,  but  for 
you.  Well,  he  sent  for  me  a  few  days  ago,  to  ask  my  par 
don,  and  to  beg  me  to  take  charge  of  a  certain  child  of  his. 
It  seems  that,  two  or  three  years  ago,  he  was  inveigled 
into  a  marriage  with  a  beautiful  but  unprincipled  girl,  be 
longing  to  one  of  the  worst  families  in  this  A'icinity;  her 
parents  keep  a  low  tavern,  generally  known,  I  believe,  as 
the  '  Rat-Hole,'  about  a  mile  out  of  town,  on  the  Berganton 
road.  Do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  pointed  out  to  me,"  replied  Bergan. 

"  Well,  the  girl  is  dead ;  but  there  is  a  child,  left  in  the 
grandmother's  hands,  which  Varley  wants  me  to  get  pos 
session  of,  and  bring  up  in  a  respectable  way.  Poor  fellow! 


MISTAKES.  427 

lie  has  seen  what  is  the  result  of  evil  associations,  and  de 
sires  to  save  his  child  from  a  similar  fate.  Still,  he  wishes 
the  matter  to  be  arranged  quietly,  if  possible.  So,  yester 
day,  I  went  out  to  see  the  grandmother — that  explains  how 
I  came  to  be  in  so  vile  a  place.  Well,  I  was  made  to  wait 
for  a  half  hour  in  a  dirty  little  back  room ;  and  having 
nothing  else  in  the  world  to  interest  me,  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  conversation  on  the  other  side  of  the  thin 
board  partition  which  divided  the  room  from  the  next  one. 
Still,  I  doubt  if  I  should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  try  to 
make  it  out,  if  I  had  not  heard  your  name  spoken.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  possibly  be  able  to  do  you  a 
good  turn,  in  part  payment  of  what  you  had  done  for  me. 
So,  swallowing  my  scruples  as  best  I  could,  I  put  my  ear 
to  one  of  the  cracks,  and  listened.  There  were  two  men 
on  the  other  side,  but  they  were  wise  enough  not  to  call 
names, — I  did  not  get  the  least  clue  to  whom  or  what  they 
were.  One  talked  quite  low,  but  in  a  clear,  though  rather 
thin  voice,  which  made  it  comparatively  easy  to  catch  what 
he  was  saying.  The  other  talked  louder,  but  pretty  thick, 
as  if  he  were  a  good  deal  the  worse  for  liquor;  avid  he 
mixed  up  everything  that  he  said  with  such  anqiieer  med 
ley  of  proverbs — " 

"  Proverbs  !  "  interrupted  Bergan,  starting,  and  begin 
ning  to  look  interested. 

"Yes, — proverbs  in  every  language  under  the  sun, — 
Latin,  Greek,  Spanish,  German,  and  all  the  rest, — a  regular 
Tower-of-Babel  performance.  Do  you  recognize  him  ?  " 

"I  suspect  that  I  do.     Go  on." 

"  Well,  his  companion, — have  I  given  you  any  clue  to 
him?" 

"  None  as  yet.  Perhaps  I  may  get  one  as  your  story 
progresses." 

"He  was  persuading  this  old  proverb-spouter  to  sign 
some  paper, — a  will,  I  think;  but  it  was  only  after  a  good 
deal  of  arguing,  and  bribing,  and  threatening,  that  he  sue- 


428  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE    COEDS. 

ceedecl  in  doing  so.  Now  comes  your  part  in  the  matter ; 
the  old  fellow's  great  objection  seemed  to  be  that  he  didn't 
want  to  injure  you." 

"  Me  !  "  repeated  Bergan,  in  much  astonishment ;  "  what 
had  I  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  couldn't  find  out ;  but  I  thought 
you  might  be  able  to  tell.  You  cannot  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.     What  else  was  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  only  the  old  bundle  of  proverbs  also  wanted 
to  know  '  what  would  be  to  pay,'  if  they  were  found  out, 
— would  it  be  felony,  or  compounding  of  felony,  or  Avhat  ?  " 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  Bergan,  "  the  will  was  a  forgery, 
then!" 

"  I  cannot  say  as  to  that.  The  man  who  didti't,  spout 
proverbs  set  the  other's  scruples  at  rest,  first,  by  asserting 
that  there  was  not  the  least  danger  of  detection  ;  and 
secondly,  by  declaring  that  you  would  not  sustain  any 
injury,  because  the  property  was  certain  to  come  to  him, 
soon  or  late,  anyhow.  Whereupon  the  drunken  Solomon 
muttered,  sotto  voce,  '  Into  the  mouth  of  a  bad  dog,  often 
falls  a  good  bone,'  and  appeared  to  sign  his  name  as 
required.  At  least,  I  heard  the  scratching  of  a  pen  on 
paper;  and,  after  that,  some  money  was  told  out  on  the 
table,  as  a  first  instalment  of  the  bribe  agreed  upon; 
and  another  instalment  was  to  be  paid  at  the  same  place 
to-morrow.  Do  you  get  any  light  on  the  transaction 
yet  ?  " 

Bergan  looked  very  grave.  He  remembered  old  Hue's 
assertion  that  Doctor  Remy  had  wedded  Carice  simply  to 
get  possession  of  the  Hall  estates,  through  his  uncle's  will 
in  her  favor.  "  Was  the  first  voice  that  of  an  educated 
man  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Thoroughly  so  ;  an  exceedingly  distinct,  even  intona 
tion,  and  the  language  was  well  chosen,  too.  It  would 
have  been  a  very  pleasant  voice  to  the  ear,  except  that  it 
seemed  to  lack  heart,  emotion;  it  was  just  clear  and  cold, 


MISTAKES.  429 

like  ice.  Arc  you  beginning  to  sec  your  way  through  the 
affair?"  . 

"  Very  dimly,  if  at  all.  But  I  think  that  I  know  the 
parties." 

"  Is  there  anything  to  be  done  about  it  ?  Can  I  help 
you  in  any  way?" 

Bergan  shook  his  head.  He  remembered  that  Doctor 
Remy  was  the  husband  of  Carice.  He  sat  silent,  his  heart 
swelling  with  unselfish  pain  and  pity  for  the  pure,  delicate 
nature  thus  linked  to  the  dark  and  vile  one  ;  he  hoped  that 
the  latter  had  not  lost  the  art  of  concealing  somewhat  of 
its  hideousness. 

Mr.  Unwick  rose.  "  I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer. 
I  am  glad — or  sorry,  whichever  is  proper — that  my  story 
proves  to  be  of  so  little  importance." 

"Thank  you,  nevertheless,  for  taking  the  trouble  to 
come  and  tell  it  to  me.  By  the  way,  did  you  get  the  child 
you  went  after?" 

"  Not  yet ;  the  grandmother  declared  that  it  was  not  in 
the  house,  though  I  did  not  believe  her.  Bad  woman 
as  she  is,  I  think  she  really  loves  it,  and  would  like  to 
keep  it.  But  I  was  authorized  to  offer  her  a  Considerable 
sum  of  money  to  get  it  quietly  out  of  her  hands;  and  she 
knows  that  the  law  gives  the  father  the  right  to  dispose  of 
its  future.  I  am  going,  to-morrow  afternoon,  to  get  a  final 
answer  from  her,  after  she  has  consulted  with  her  husband, 
who  was  out  when  I  was  there." 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  with  you  ?  I  should  like  to  see  if 
I  recognize  any  old  acquaintance  around  the  place ;  and  if 
I  do,  to  give  him  a  friendly  warning  to  take  care  not  to  be 
seen  there  again.  I  happen  to  know  that  the  premises  are 
now  under  constant  surveillance,  as  a  suspected  depository  of 
stolen  goods,  and  that  the  police  are  meditating  a  descent 
upon  them  in  a  day  or  two." 

"I  shall  bo  only  too  happy  to  have  your  company," 
replied  Unwick,  courteously. 


430  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

"And  I  will  go  along,  too,  if  you  don't  object,"  re 
marked  Hubert.  "If  the  place  is  of  the  character  you 
mention,  the  more  the  safer,  as  well  as  merrier,  I  should 
say." 

"  Then,  I  will  call  for  you  to-morrow,  at  three  o'clock  " 
said  Unwick,  "  if  that  suits  your  convenience." 

The  "  Rat-Hole "  wore  an  appearance  of  exceeding 
quietness,  in  the  sunny  autumn  afternoon.  A  half  tipsy 
vagabond  or  two  lounged  about  the  stoop,  but  the  greater 
part  of  its  frequenters  were  of  the  owl  species,  careful  not 
to  show  their  heads  in  the  daytime. 

Having  signified  to  the  bar-keeper  that  his  business  was 
with  the  mistress  of  the  house,  Unwick  was  shortly  sum 
moned  to  her  presence,  leaving  the  brothers  waiting  in  the 
bar-room.  After  a  considerable  time  he  reappeared,  and 
beckoned  to  Bcrgan. 

"  I  have  persuaded  Mrs.  Smilt  to  allow  of  a  witness  to 
our  transaction,"  said  he.  And  he  added,  in  a  low  tone, 
"The  pair  that  I  spoke  of,  arc  on  the  other  side  of  the  par 
tition  again  ;  you  can  hear  their  voices,  and  satisfy  yourself 
whether  you  know  them  or  not." 

Mrs.  Smilt  was  a  hard,  ill-favored  woman,  of  about 
fifty ;  she  had  a  child  on  her  lap,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Unwick  wants  a  witness  to  our  business,"  she 
remarked,  grimly,  to  Bergan.  "  Well,  here's  the  child,  and 
there's  the  money  that  he's  to  pay  me  for't.  It's  a  fair 
bargain,  and  I  don't  mean  to  shirk  it ;  though  I'd  ruther 
keep  the  child,  a  good  deal,  myself.  But  my  husband  'ud 
ruther  have  the  money;  and  he's  captain." 

Bergan  bowed.  lie  would  not  speak  lest  his  voice 
should  be  heard  and  recognized  in  the  adjoining  apartment. 
He  drew  near  the  partition,  but  there  was  only  a  sound  of 
footsteps  on  the  other  side,  and  the  closing  of  a  door ;  he 
was  too  late  to  get  any  satisfaction  from  this  quarter.  lie 


MISTAKES.  43  J 

stood  waiting  impatiently  for  Unwick  to  bring  his  business 
to  an  end,  and  half  inclined  to  excuse  himself,  and  make 
his  escape,  when  he  heard  a  pistol-shot,  and  a  brief  struggle, 
ended  by  a  heavy  fall,  in  the  direction  of  the  bar-room. 
He  opened  the  door,  and  ran  thither,  closely  followed  by 
Unwick  and  Mrs.  Simlt. 

A  singular  scene  was  presented  to  his  eyes.  Prostrate 
on  the  floor  lay  Doctor  Remy,  with  an  exceedingly  black 
and  discomfited  face  ;  while  Hubert  was  standing  over  him 
like  a  young  gladiator.  On  one  side,stood  Dick  Causton 
pouring  forth  a  volley  of  utterly  incoherent  proverbs  and 
entreaties,  addressed  to  his  "dear  young  friend  Mr.  Bei*- 
gan ; "  and,  on  the  other,  stood  the  barkeeper,  so  bewil 
dered,  apparently,  by  this  sudden  and  unaccountable  fracas, 
as  to  be  undecided  which  side  or  what  tone  to  take.  At 
sight  of  Bcrgan,  Dick  reeled  backward,  and  looked  com 
pletely  confounded  ;  Doctor  Remy  set  his  teeth  hard,  and 
his  face  grew  blacker  than  ever. 

Bergan  looked  at  Hubert.  "  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  wish  I  knew ! "  responded  Hubert. 
"This — gentleman" — there  was  a  deeply  sai'castic  empha 
sis  on  the  word — "  did  me  the  honor  to  point  a  pistol  at 
me.  I  knocked  it  up,  and  him  down;  that  is  all  I  know 
about  the  matter." 

Bergan  motioned  him  to  stand  aside,  and  helped  Doctor 
Remy  to  his  feet.  "Thank  God — if .  you  ever  do  such  a 
thing-' — said  he  solemnly,  "that  you  have  been  saved  from 
the  commission  of  another  crime.  Go,  now  ;  and,  for  your 
own  sake,  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  those  connected  with 
you,  take  care  to  be  seen  here  no  more.  I  assure  you  that 
it  is  a  dangerous  place  for  persons  without  legitimate  busi 
ness  and  fair  credentials." 

Doctor  Remy  had  recovered  his  composure,  in  part. 
He  drew  himself  up  haughtily.  "Keep  your  advice  for 
those  who  need  it,"  he  rejoined ;  "  I  am  here  simply  as  a 


432  IIOLDEN   WITH    THE   CORDS. 

physician,  in  attendance  upon  a  sick  man.  What  your 
business  may  be,  is  none  of  mine :  good  evening."  And 
he  strode  out  of  the  door. 

Hubert  stood  looking  on,  the  picture  of  astonishment. 
"  Was  there  ever  such  a  riddle!"  said  he.  "First,  an  un 
known  man  attempts  my  life ;  and  next,  you  bid  him  go  in 
peace,  or  something  very  like  it !  " 

"  He  took  you  for  me,"  said  Bergan,  quietly. 

"  1  appreciate  the  compliment.  But  are  you  in  the 
habit  of  serving  for  a  target  ?  " 

O  O 

"  Hush  !     It  was  Doctor  Remy." 

Hubert  locked  more  amazed  than  ever,  for  a  moment; 
then  his  brow  flushed,  and  his  eyes  lit  up.  "  Lucky  for 
him  that  you  did  not  tell  me  that  before,"  said  he.  "  He 
should  never  have  gotten  out  of  my  hands,  except  into 
those  of  a  policeman.  Why,  Bergan,  what  are  you  think 
ing  of,  to  let  him  escape  us  thus  ?  " 

"1  will  explain  all  to  you,  when  we  get  home," 
answered  Bergan,  wearily.  "  Mrs.  Smilt,  1  beg  your  par 
don  for  having  been  the  unintentional  cause  of  such  a  com 
motion  in  your  house ;  I  think  I  can  assure  you  that  no 
harm  has  been  done.  Mr.  Unwick,  arc  you  ready  to  go?" 

At  the  door,  Bergan  stopped  and  looked  around  for 
Dick  Caustou ;  but  he  had  taken  advantage  of  the  discus 
sion  between  the  brothers  to  sneak  out.  The  fact  was  a 
suggestive  one  to  Bergan,  taken  in  connection  with  Un- 
Avick's  story  of  the  preceding  day.  Never  before,  in  spite 
of  his  bad  habits  and  lallen  estate,  had  Dick  Causton  been 
known  to  flee  from  before  any  man's  face. 


X. 

LIKE   A   THIEF   IN   THE    NIGHT. 

BERGAN"  could  not  help  wasting  a  little  wonder  on 
Doctor  Remy's  choice   of  the   "  Rat-Hole "    as   a 
place  for  transacting  business,  of  whatever  character. 
Yet  the  explanation  was  simple.     The  doctor  was  there, 
as   he   had   stated,   professionally.     One   of   the   habitues 
of  the  place  had  been  severely  wounded  in  an  encoun 
ter  with  a  policeman,  some  weeks  before;  and  although 
he  had  succeeded  in  escaping  unrecognized,  the  affair  had 
made  so  much  stir  that  his  friends  had  not  deemed  it  pru 
dent  to  put  him  into  the  hands  of  any  of  the  city  physi 
cians,  for  treatment.      Doctor  Remy  had  therefore  been 
summoned  from  Berganton,  and  had  not  only  conducted 
the  case  with  his  usual  skill,  but,  foreseeing"^  possibility 
of  turning  the  circumstance  to  future  account,  had  won 
the  ruffian's  warmest  gratitude  by  keeping  his  secret  and 
declining  any  fee.     Having   thus   gotten  the  run  of  the 
place,  and  the  good  will  of  its  inmates,  he  had  chosen  it 
for  the  scene  of  his  interviews  with  Dick  Causton,  because 
he  had  his  own  excellent  reasons  for  not  wishing  these  in 
terviews  to  be  seen  or  suspected  by  anybody  in  Berganton. 
And  Dick  made  no  objections,  inasmuch  as  various  small 
errands,  which  he  dignified  with  the  title  of  "business," 
had  taken  him  to  Savalla,  for  two  or  three  consecutive 
days ;   and  the   "  Rat-Hole "  was  a  convenient  stopping- 
place,  and,  moreover,  furnished  liquor  which  had  the  two 
fold  merit  of  being  of  a  better  quality  than  any  to  be  had 
at  the  "Gregg  Tavern,"  and  of  being  quaffed  at  Doctor 
Remy's  expense.     Dick  was  not  likely  to  trouble  his  head 
10 


434:  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

much  about  the  character  of  any  house  possessing  these 
strong  recommendations. 

In  regard  to  the  signing  of  the  fraudulent  will,  he  had 
shown  himself  a  little  more  scrupulous ;  his  habit  of  in 
toxication  had  not  yet  accomplished  its  evil  work  of  oblit 
erating  all  sense  of  right,  and  every  consideration  of  honor. 
At  the  first  broaching. of  the  subject,  he  had  indignantly 
refused  to  listen  to  it  for  a  moment.  Later  on — having 
apparently  gotten  some  new  lights  on  the  question  in  the 
meantime — he  had  quietly  suffered  his  objections  to  give 
way,  one  after  another,  to  the  doctor's  ai-guments  and 
bribes ;  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  latter,  who  found 
his  task,  on  the  whole,  easier  than  he  had  expected. 

Yet  he  might  have  felt  some  misgivings,  if  he  had  fol 
lowed  Dick  out  of  the  house,  immediately  after  the  signing 
of  the  will,  and  heard  the  low,  satisfied  chuckle  with  which 
he  tumbled  into  his  superannuated  chaise,  and  started  his 
horse  on  a  jog-trot  toward  Berganton.  The  potent  draught 
just  swallowed  had  as  yet  taken  effect  only  in  quickening 
his  sense  of  the  humorous,  and  putting  him  on  excellent 
terms  with  his  own  self-conceit.  His  eyes  twinkled  with 
amusement,  too  intense  to  be  denied  the  occasional  vent  of 
a  loud  burst  of  laughter,  or  an  appropriate  string  of  pro 
verbs. 

"  Wer  dem  Spiele  zusieht,  kauri's  am  besten,  my  dear 
Doctor  Remy,"  he  muttered ;  "  or,  in  other  words,  the 
looker-on  sees  more  of  the  game  than  the  player.  What 
would  you  give  to  know  what  I  know,  I  wonder !  Just 
wait  till  the  right  time  comes ;  then  you'll  find  out  that 
'He  is  worst  cheated,  who  cheats  himself.'" 

A  mile  further  on,  his  potations  beginning  to  make 
themselves  felt,  he  suddenly  broke  out,  with  a  tipsy  laugh 
and  leer; — "'Mankanei  drage  haardt  mod  brudet  RebJ 
mine  excellent  doctor, — you  cannot  haul  hard  with  a 
broken  rope !  Ha !  ha ! " 

And,   although   his    shamefaced   flight   from   Bergan's 


LIKE    A    THIEF    IN    THE    NIGHT.  435 

presence,  on  the  second  day,  may  seem  to  indicate  that 
he  was  not  quite  certain  of  the  uprightness  of  all  his  acts 
and  motives,  no  sooner  was  he  fairly  on  the  road  to  Ber- 
ganton  than  he  began  to  chuckle  again. 

Bergan,  meanwhile,  was  questioning  within  himself 
whether  he  ought  not  to  make  known  Unwick's  story 
to  Major  Bergan.  He  hesitated  only  because  he  foresaw 
that  the  information  might  possibly  be  set  down  to  his 
self-interest,  rather  than  his  desire  to  serve  his  uncle. 
Nevertheless,  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  decide  that  he 
must  do  what  he  knew  to  be  the  right  thing,  regardless  of 
consequences.  Nor  was  it  certain  that  his  uncle  would 
misconstrue  his  motives : — not  long  since,  lie  had  received 
an  intimation  from  Rue  that  he  was  sure  to  meet  with  a 
cordial  reception  whenever  he  could  make  it  convenient  to 
visit  Berganton ;  the  Major's  anger  having  so  completely 
wasted  away  under  the  double  attrition  of  time  and  favor 
able  report, — not  to  mention  her  own  steady  influence  in  his 
behalf, — that  he  had  lately  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him. 
There  was  really  no  good  reason,  therefore,  why  he  should 
hesitate  to  present  himself  at  the  Hall,  except  that  the 
whole  neighborhood  was  certain  to  bristle  with  unpleasant 
recollections.  However,  he  must  face  them  some  time,  and 
as  well  now  as  ever. 

Still,  as  nightfall  was  at  hand,  and  he  knew  of  no  rea 
son  for  hurry,  he  thought  it  expedient  to  postpone  the 
visit  till  the  morrow.  He  would  ride  over  t9  the  Hall, 
he  thought,  betimes  in  the  morning.  Having"  made  his 
arrangements  accordingly,  and  committed  his  office  to  IIu 
bcrt's  care,  he  retired  early,  and  soon  forgot  the  fatigues 
and  excitements  of  the  day  in  a  profound  sleep. 

He  had  not  slept  long,  however,  before  he  woke  from  a 
dream — wherein  Doctor  Remy  figured  as  an  iconoclast, 
overthrowing  and  demolishing  the  ancient  gods  of  Bergan 
Hall — to  the  consciousness  that  some  one  was  knocking 
loudly  at  his  door. 


436 


HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 


"  Who  ia  there  ?  "  he  called. 

"  It's  me,  Massa  Harry,"  responded  a  voice,  with  the 
unmistakable  negro  intonation;  but,  nevertheless,  a  voice 
too  much  disconnected  with  the  present  to  meet  with  im 
mediate  recognition  from  his  but  half-awakened  faculties. 

O 

"  Who  is  '  me'?"  he  demanded  again. 

"  You's  own  boy  Brick,  Massa  Harry,"  was  the  reply. 

With  an  instant  intuition  of  evil,  Bergan  sprang  out  of 
bed,  and  opened  the  door.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Oh,  Massa  Harry  !  ole  massa's  dyin',"  replied  Brick ; 
"  an'  gramma  Rue,  she  sent  me  for  you  to  come  right  off'; 
she  say, — '  Tell  him  to  ride  fast,  dere's  not  a  minit  to  lose.' 
An'  I'se  brought  Vic  'long  for  you;  an'  while  you's 
a-dressin',  I'll  jes'  go  an'  give  her  a  drink,  an'  rub  her 
down  a  lilly  bit,  so  she'll  be  right  smart  and  fresh  when 
you's  ready  to  start." 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Bergan  saw  the 
great  dusky  pile  of  the  Hall,  and  the  dark  masses  of  the 
live  oaks,  rise  before  him,  in  the  pale  light  of  the  wan 
ing  moon.  He  knew  that  its  master  lay  within.  Brick 
had  narrated  how  Rue  had  ordered  and  superintended  his 
removal  thither,  in  one  of  his  moments  of  comparative 
quiet  and  exhaustion  ; — the  old  woman  being  of  the  opinion 
that  it  was  not  fitting  for  him  to  die  otherwhere  than  un 
der  the  ancestral  roof,  in  the  same  room  whei*e  one  after 
another  of  his  forefathers  had  likewise  laid  down  the  bur 
den  of  the  flesh,  and  begun  the  new  life  of  the  spirit.  To 
this  room,  Bergan  was  easily  guided  by  his  groans  and 
cries. 

Never  before  had  he  seen  a  man  in  the  terrible  grasp 
of  delirium  tremens ;  and  now,  after  a  brief  look,  he  was 
glad  to  turn  away  his  eyes. 

Major  Bergan  was  on  the  bed,  but  he  was  only  held 
there  by  the  main  strength  of  two  stout  negroes.  A  fright- 


LIKE    A    THIEF    IN    THE    NIGHT.  4:37 

ful  spasm  contorted  his  face  and  twisted  his  limbs.  Great 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  brow;  and  from  his 
mouth  flowed  a  mingled  stream  of  oaths,  curses,  shrieks  of 
horror,  threats  of  defiance,  and  groans  of  agony.  His 
bodily  anguish  was  only  less  than  his  mental  torture.  His 
eyes  started  from  his  head  at  the  phantom-creations  of  his 
delirious  imagination.  The  furniture  was  alive,  watching 
him  with  fiery  eyes,  and  threatening  him  with  envenomed 
teeth  and  claws ;  the  shadows  took  mocking  shapes  and 
gibed  and  jeered  at  him  ;  and  the  pictures  were  demons 
setting  them  all  on.  The  very  hairs  of  his  head  turned  to 
slimy  snakes,  and  the  bed-clothes  were  now  damp  winding- 
sheets,  and  now  devouring  flames. 

"  Have  you  had  a  doctor  ?  "  asked  Bergan  of  Rue,  who 
had  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  Yes  ;  Doctor  Remy  has  been  here  twice  ;  he  left  not 
much  more  than  half  an  hour  ago.  He  said  he  had  a  criti 
cal  case  on  hand,  that  must  be  seen  to  ;  and  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  here,  except  what  we  c«wld  do  as  well 
as  he." 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Giving  him  soup  to  keep  up  his  strength,  and  opium 
to  quiet  him.  A  few  minutes  ago,  too,  in  a  lucid  moment, 
he  called  for  some  powders  that  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
taking,  which,  he  said,  always  did  him  more  good  than  any 
thing  else.  There  were  only  two  left ;  we  gave  him  one, 
as  he  was  so  bent  on  having  it ;  I  thought  if  it  did  no  good, 
it  couldn't  do  any  harm." 

"  Did  Doctor  Remy  say  that  he  would  call  again  ?  " 

"  He  did,  but,  Master  Bergan,  a  blind  woman's  ears  are 
quick  at  catching  meanings  as  well  as  words,  and  he  did  not 
mean  to  come  very  soon, — not,  I  reckon,  till  all  is  over. 

Bergan  meditated.  Though  he  had  long  known  that 
his  uncle's  habits  would  be  likely  to  bring  him,  sooner  or 
later,  to  a  drunkard's  most  miserable  end,  he  could  not  but 
think  it  somewhat  suspicious  that  the  seizure  should  have 


438  IIOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

followed  so  closely  upon  the  completion  of  the  fraudulent 
will. 

"  When  was  my  uncle  taken  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Early  this  evening.  He  had  been  drinking  a  good 
deal  for  two  or  three  days  past;  he  said  he  did  not  feel 
well,  and  he  would  keep  at  the  brandy  bottle,  in  spite  of 
all  that  I  could  say  to  him.  About  ten  o'clock  this  morn 
ing,  Doctor  Remy  came  in  to  see  him,  and  I  suspect,  told 
him  something  that  made  him  angry, — for  I  heard  him 
swearing  furiously  to  himself,  after  the  doctor  had  gone. 
And  then,  probably,  he  fell  to  drinking  worse  than 
ever ;  but  it  was  not  until  about  four  o'clock  that  I  heard 
him*  groaning  and  crying  out,  and  he  has  kept  it  up  a  good 
part  of  the  time  ever  since.  But  now,  I  think,  he  seems 
to  be  getting  a  little  easier." 

Bergan  turned  to  the  bed.  The  spasm  was  over,  and 
the  Major  lay  exhausted,  with  his  eyes  closed.  Opening 
them,  they  immediately  brightened  with  a  look  of  recog 
nition. 

"  Is  that  you,  Harry  ?  "  he  asked,  feebly. 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  replied  Bergan,  taking  his  hand ;  "  Rue 
sent  for  me,  and  I  came  at  once.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you 
so  ill." 

"  I  think  you  ai*e,  my  boy,  I  think  you  are,"  responded 
Major  Bergan ;  "  you  look  like  it,  and  besides,  a  Bergan 
never  lies.  And  I'm  sorry,  too, — all  the  more,  because  I  sus 
pect  that  it's  my  own  fault.  If  ever  you  learn  to  drink — 
and  I  don't  feel  quite  so  sure  that  it's  necessary  as  I  did 
once — don't  drink  too  hard,  Harry,  don't  drink  too  hard  ! 
If  ever  I  get  over  this  bout,  I  swear  I'll  think  twice,  here 
after,  before  I  drink  once.  And  if  I  don't,  I'm  glad  you're 
here,  Harry,  boy ;  it's  well  for  the  new  master  to  be  on 
before  the  old  one  is  off." 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  live  to  carry  your  good  resolu 
tions  into  effect,"  said  Bergan  earnestly. 

"  Do  you  ?     Well,  so  do  I." 


LIKE   A   THIEF   IN   THE   NIGHT.  439 

lie  lay  quiet  for  a  moment,  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 
All  at  once  he  started  up,  exclaiming; — 

"  Fire  and  fury  !  what's  that  ?  " 

The  negroes  caught  ho!4  of  him,  expecting  a  fresh  con 
vulsion  of  the  same  nature  as  the  preceding  ones;  but, 
though  his  face  was  frightfully  distorted,  and  his  form 
writhed  with  pain,  there  was  no  accompaniment  of  phan 
tasmal  horrors. 

"  Brandy !  "  he  finally  gasped,  through  his  set  teeth. 

Rue  motioned  to  one  of  the  women  in  waiting  to  bring 
some.  Bergan  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Surely  you 
will  not  give  it  to  him  now"  said  he,  impressively. 

"  The  doctor  said  he  must  have  a  little,  now  and  then," 
she  answered. 

But  before  the  glass  could  be  put  to  his  lips,  he  groaned, 
shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  fell  back  on  the  pillow, 
with  his  eyes  rolled  up  in  his  head,  his  hands  clenched,  and 
a  dark  froth  issuing  from  between  his  shut  teeth.  He  was 
dead. 


XI. 

AFTER    MANY   DAYS. 

PTT1HERE  was  a  sudden  silence — the  shadow  of  God's 
1  hand.  In  it  the  lately  agonized,  writhing  body  lay 
at  peace,  the  anxious  spectators  stood  awed  and 
motionless.  Yet  this  silence  was  more  voiceful  than  any 
sound, — full  of  solemn  questionings  and  more  solemn  an 
swers,  subtle  suggestions,  grave  warnings,  and  momentous 
intimations.  Of  the  value  and  the  valuelessness  of  life,  of 
the  night  and  the  morning  of  death,  of  the  character  and 
the  import  of  the  Hereafter, — on  all  these  topics  it  dis 
coursed  more  eloquently  than  the  most  silvery  of  oratorical 
tongues. 

It  had  also  its  more  commonplace  and  definite  purport 
to  the  simple-minded  dependents  gathered  in  the  gloom  of 
the  broad  gallery  and  the  black  oaken  staircase ;  which  was 
no  sooner  fully  apprehended,  than  the  sound  of  weeping 
was  heard  among  them,  — though  not  noisily  demonstra 
tive,  according  to  the  African  wont,  for  their  awe  of  their 
late  master  had  been  greater  than  their  affection,  and  was 
in  nowise  diminished  by  the  knowledge  of  the  dread  change 
that  had  come  upon  him.  It  was  genuine  sorrow,  never 
theless,  for,  though  he  had  been  a  hard  master,  of  late, 
most  of  them  remembered  when  he  had  been  kinder ;  and, 
at  the  worst,  he  had  not  been  without  gleams  of  good 
humor  and  leniency,  upon  which  their  minds  now  dwelt 
willingly  and  tenderly.  Some  few  gray  heads,  too,  there 
were  among  them,  who  recollected  the  grace  and  promise 
of  his  youth,  and  how  proud  they  had  been  of  their  gay, 
handsome,  generous,  high-spirited  master;  and  these,  striv- 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS.  441 

ing  to  forget  that  the  promise  had  not  been  kept,  or  to  set 
down  its  failure  to  adverse  fate  rather  than  wilful  short 
coming,  crowded  the  doorway,  or  stole  in  pairs  to  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  and  looked  through  tears  at  the  dead  face,  and 
whispered  to  each  other  that  something  of  its  youth  had 
come  back  to  it; — the  soul,  as  it  took  its  departure,  had 
stamped  the  features  with  their  original  nobility  and  grace. 
And  then  they  stole  out,  to  prompt  each  other's  memories 
with  anecdotes  of  that  vanished  youth,  and  to  dilate  the 
eyes  of  their  juniors  with  descriptions  of  the  ancient  splen 
dors  and  hospitalities  of  the  desolate  old  Hall ; — the  banquets 
that  had  been  served  in  the  dusky  dining-room,  the  gay  meas 
ures  that  had  been  trodden  in  the  long  parloi*,  the  wedding- 
trains  and  the  funeral  processions  that  had  passed  through 
the  great  door;  and,  finally,  of  the  ghosts  that  still  walk 
the  empty  rooms,  and  may  be  expected  to  be  seen  stalk 
ing  through  the  long  passages  to-night,  or  holding  solemn 
conclave  around  the  deserted  tabernacle  of  the  latest  comer 
among  them. 

Hark !  is  not  that  the  sound  of  footsteps,  falling  airily, 
yet  heavily,  too,  in  some  distant  chamber?  And  there,  in 
the  upper  gallery,  is  certainly  the  rustle  of  the  supernatu- 
rally  stiff  silk  robe  of  the  first  Lady  Bergan,  who  was 
found  dead  in  her  bed,  so  many  years  ago !  And  now 
creaks  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  wing,  through  which  old 
Sir  Harry  is  wont  to  march  majestically  forth,  sword  in 
hand,  to  take  vengeance  on  any  degenerate  scion  of  the 
house  that  he  encounters  in  his  path  !  This  last  apparition 
is  too  much  for  their  nerves.  They  shrink  together,  and 
flee  noiselessly  to  their  cabins,  hearing  the  footsteps  of  the 
angry  knight  following  them  all  the  way,  and  leaving  the 
old  house  untenanted  save  by  the  ghosts,  and  the  few  faith 
ful  watchers  in  the  death-chamber. 

Rue  is  kneeling  by  the  corpse.     She  has  closed  the  eyes 
— sightless  as  her  own ; — she  has  smoothed  back  the  dis- 
qrdered  hair ;  she  has  pressed  the  lips  together  over  the  set 
19* 


442  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

teeth  ;  now  she  is  passing  her  withered  hand  gently  over 
the  rigid  features,  thinking  more  of  the  baby  that  she 
nursed,  the  child  that  she  petted  and  spoiled,  and  the  youth 
that  she  admired  and  loved,  than  of  the  middle-aged  man 
that  she  had  served  with  her  best  strength,  or  the  elderly 
one  that  she  had  stood  by  so  faithfully,  striving  in  vain  to 
hold  him  back  from  his  evil  ways.  Finally,  she  touches  the 
cold  lips  with  her  own. 

"I  kissed  him  when  he  was  born,"  she  murmurs,  half 
apologetically,  to  Bergan,  "  and  there  will  be  no  kiss  on  his 
dead  lips,  unless  I  leave  it  there." 

Bergan  looks  at  her  wonderingly.  Her  face  is  calm  • 
there  are  no  tears  in  her  eyes ;  she  has  the  satisfied  and 
relieved  expression  of  one  who,  after  long  and  patient  wait 
ing,  beholds  the  expected  rest  or  gladness  close  at  hand, 
and  is  already  half  content. 

"  One  little  trust  more  to  be  fulfilled,"  she  says  softly  to 
herself,  "  and  then  my  work  is  done,  my  long  service  of  the 
family  is  over.  My  God,  have  I  served  Thee  as  well  ?  " 

And  although,  in  her  deep  humility,  she  shakes  her  head, 
and  pronounces  herself  an  unprofitable  servant,  we,  who 
can  hear  better  that  voice  in  the  silence,  making  little  of 
rank,  wealth,  talent,  and  culture,  and  much  of  faith,  patience, 
and  integrity,  may  be  sure  that  it  utters  benignantly, — 
"  Well  done ! " 

Rising,  at  last,  Rue  turned  to  Bergan,  and  made  him  a 
low,  reverential  courtesy. 

"  Master  Bergan,"  she  asked,  "  have  you  any  orders  to 
give?" 

Bergan  started.  There  was  a  qniet  significance  in  her 
tone  and  manner  that  made  his  heart  beat  fast,  for  just  one 
moment, — not  with  elation,  however,  so  much  as  with  a 
heavy  weight  of  responsibility ;  as  if  the  chill  corpse,  the 
crumbling  Hall,  the  hundreds  of  negroes,  the  far-stretching 
lands,  and  all  the  cares  and  complexities  thereto  pertaining, 
had  been  suddenly  flung  on  his  shoulders.  But  the  feeling 


AFFKlt   MANY    DAYS.  443 

passed  quickly ;  he  remembered  the  will  in  favor  of  Carice, 
as  well  as  its  fraudulent  successor  (which,  he  now  bethought 
himself,  it  might  be  impossible  to  nullify,  even  if  he  could 
bring  himself  to  come  in  conflict  with  Carice's  husband) ; 
and  the  weight  slid  easily  from  his  shoulders,  though  not 
without  leaving  some  correlative  heaviness  in  his  heart. 

Still  there  were  orders  to  be  given ;  and,  until  a  more 
legitimate  authority  or  a  closer  relationship  should  super 
sede  him,  he,  being  on  the  spot,  must  answer  the  imme 
diate  need  of  headship.  He  despatched  messengers, 
therefore,  in  various  directions, — one  to  Godfrey  Bei'gan  to 
apprise  him  that  the  long,  bitter  feud  was  ended,  and 
between  him  and  the  corpse  of  his  brother  there  might 
be  peace  ;  another  to  Doctor  Remy,  with  a  supplementary 
direction  that  if  he  was  not  to  be  found,  Doctor  Gerrish 
should  be  summoned  also ;  and  a  third  to  the  under 
taker,  to  arrange  for  the  sombre  funeral  paraphernalia. 
When  all  was  done,  he  was  glad  to  retire  for  awhile  to  his 
room,  leaving  Rue,  as  she  desired,  alone  with  her  dead. 
Yes,  hers, — no  living  person  had  so  strong  a  prescriptive 
right  to  that  sad  and  tender  vigil ;  no  other  love  held  the 
sufficient  warrant  of  such  long  and  loyal  service. 

Bergan  remembered,  long  afterward,  just  how  she 
looked  as  he  bade  her  good  night ;  standing,  tall,  gaunt, 
and  erect,  by  the  high,  old-fashioned  bedstead,  drawing  the 
heavy  curtains  round  the  silent  dead  with  one  hand,  and 
extending  the  other  toward  him  with  a  free  and  lofty  ges 
ture  that  suggested  the  unveiling  of  a  new  and  golden 
future. 

"  Good  night,  Master  Bergan,"  said  she,  "  or  rather, 
good  morning.  For  you,  the  night  is  past,  and  the  dawn 
is  near.  For  you  the  Bergan  star  shines  bright  in  the 
morning  sky;  for  you  and  the  old  Hall  a  new  reign  of 
peace  and  prosperity  is  begun.  Neglect  not  the  warnings 
of  the  past ;  rejoice  in  the  promise  of  the  future.  And 
God  bless  you,  now  and  evermore  !  " 


444  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  a  solemnity  befitting 
a  long  farewell.  At  the  moment,  a  vague  apprehension 
flitted  across  Bergan's  mind ;  but,  looking  back,  he  saw 
that  she  had  seated  herself  quietly  by  the  bed,  like  one 
whose  only  purpose  was  to  watch  and  wait.  Besides,  she 
had  spoken  freely  of  the  morrow's  necessities  and  duties, 
and  of  her  own  part  in  them ;  it  was  plain  that  she  had  no 
apprehension  for  herself,  and  he  might  dismiss  his  fears. 

In  the  hall,  he  was  met  by  the  solemn  ticking  of  the  tall 
old  clock,  which  some  one  had  set  in  motion;  probably 
with  a  vague  idea  that  a  human  soul's  last  minutes  of  time 
should  be  carefully  measured,  and  the  moment  of  its 
entrance  upon  eternity  definitely  marked.  He  could  not 
help  shivering  at  the  sound.  His  mind  involuntarily 
followed  the  departed  soul  in  its  journeyings  beyond  the 
bounds  of  time,  picturing  the  heights  or  depths  it  had 
already  reached,  the  scenes  opened  to  its  awed  vision,  the  . 
momentous  truths  dawning  upon  its  startled  comprehension. 
These  thoughts  not  only  accompanied  him  to  his  room,  but 
would  not  be  shut  out  by  the  closing  door. 

Weary  as  he  was,  he  had  no  disposition  to  sleep.  He 
sat  down  by  the  table,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  sombre  reflections.  The  gloomy  death 
bed  that  he  had  just  witnessed,  the  emptiness  and  decay  of 
the  old  ancesti'al  home,  the  tangled  questions  of  right  and 
expediency  that  might  present  themselves  for  decision  at 
any  moment, — all  these  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind, 
and  depressed  his  spirits.  For  one  moment  he  half  forgot 
his  rooted  trust  in  an  overruling  Providence,  at  once  wise 
and  tender,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  chill  chain  of  events 
that  appeared  to  be  tightening  around  him,  the  seemingly 
mysterious  fate  that  had  twice  compelled  his  return  to  this 
dreary  old  dwelling, — tomb  rather, — to  experience  some 
new  phase  of  sin  or  sorrow,  after  he  had  turned  his  back 
upon  it,  as  he  believed,  for  many  years,  if  not  forever.  No 
wonder  the  negroes  thought  it  haunted  ;  its  heavy,  musty 


AFTER   MANY    DAYS.  445 

atmosphere  was  much  better  adapted  for  ghosts  to  float 
about  in  than  to  be  breathed  into  living  lungs ;  it  might 
well  be  crowded  with  the  spirits  of  his  whole  ancestry,  to 
make  it  so  stifling ! 

He  went  to  the  window,  to  see  if  it  were  any  better 
there.  Scarcely.  The  moon  had  vanished  behind  a  cloud  ; 
the  night  was  dim ;  the  outside  air  seemed  not  less  burdened 
with  woe  and  mystery  than  that  within ;  he  even  fancied 
that  he  heard  light  footsteps  on  the  path  below.  He 
flung  himself  again  into  his  chair,  and  an  almost  supersti 
tious  awe  stole  over  him,  a  feeling  that  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  emptiness,  but  only  invisibility, — that  the  air  was 
teeming  with  mystic  shapes,  busily  tying  circumstance  to 
circumstance,  cause  to  effect,  motive  to  result,  and  life  to 
life,  with  cords  of  terrible  strength  and  indestructibility. 

Cords: — The  word  struck  lightly  on  the  sensitive  chain 
of  association,  and  there  was  an  instant  response  from  the 
past; — "Holden  with  the  cords  of  his  sins."  No  doubt 
that  was  the  essential  truth.  Strictly  speaking,  a  separate 
act  or  an  individual  life  was  an  impossibility;  each  was 
bound  to  each  by  influence  or  consequence ;  sin,  especially, 
entailed  its  results  upon  a  wide  circle  of  inheritors, — the 
sinner  himself,  his  kindred,  friends,  neighbors,  even  his 
descendants  unto  remote  generations.  Doubtless  the  sins 
of  many  old-time  Bergans  had  helped  to  twist  the  cords 
which  had  held  the  mansion  of  their  pride  to  so  sad  a  period 
of  desertion  and  decay,  if  not  their  scion  to  so  woful  a 
death.  With  how  many  such  cords  was  he  himself  holden, 
and  to  what,  and  for  how  long  ? 

He  lifted  his  eyes  with  a  start.  A  dim  shadow  had 
fallen  on  the  floor ;  something  was  intercepting  the  gray 
dawn-rays,  which  feebly  lit  the  room.  He  looked  at  the 
open  window ;  it  framed  a  slight  graceful  figure,  a  wan, 
but  lovely  face, — both  so  well  remembered,  so  fondly  loved, 
so  mournfully  lost!  Of  course,  it  was  an  apparition,  a 
creation  of  his  owu  excited  fancy,  called  fortli  to  furnish 


44:6  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE   COKDS. 

another  illustration  of  the  strange  ramifications  and  knot- 
tings  of  those  mystical  cords,  and  soon  to  disappear,  and 
make  way  for  some  other  sharer  of  his  bonds. 

And  disappear  it  did ;  but  with  a  sudden  crash,  and  a 
startled  cry  of  "  Bergan !  " — neither  of  which  had  any 
touch  of  the  supernatural.  The  unexpected  sounds  at  once 
dissipated  his  awe;  he  ran  to  the  window,  saw  that  the 
rotten  flooring  of  the  upper  piazza  had  broken  down  under 
some  recent  weight,  leaped  the  gap,  flew  down  the  steps, 
and  found  lying  underneath  a  motionless  form  and  a  lily- 
pale  face,  both  half  hidden  in  long,  flowing  tresses.  No  ap 
parition  this,  but  a  living,  breathing  Carice, — or  what  had 
lately  been  such  ; — she  looked  deathlike  enough  now. 

It  may  well  be  questioned  whether  love  ever  dies.  It 
disappears  from  sight,  no  doubt;  it  ceases  to  be  felt  as 
motive  or  end;  the  very  heart  from  whence  it  sprang 
believes  that  it  is  no  more ;  perhaps  a  new — and  true — 
affection  occupies  its  place  and  does  its  work.  But  is  this 
apparent  death  anything  more  than  a  partial  decay,  analo 
gous  to  that  by  which  thousands  of  perennial  plants  seem 
annually  to  perish  f  o;n  the  face  of  the  earth,  under  the 
frosts  of  autumn,  but  the  roots  of  which,  nevertheless,  care- 
fully  preserve  their  life-principle  within,  ready  to  respond 
Avith  swift  springing  verdure  to  the  tender  kisses  and  tears 
of  the  springtime  sun  and  rain  ?  Is  not  all  death  only  a 
sleep  ? 

Bergan  had  striven  conscientiously  to  destroy  his  love 
for  Carice,  as  a  thing  which,  however  innocent  in  its  birth, 
had  grown  to  be  a  sin.  And  he  had  measurably  succeeded. 
His  woi'st  heartache  was  over.  Life  had  ceased  to  look 
unattractive ;  if  it  did  not  promise  happiness,  it  offered 
plenty  of  work,  and  a  sober  well-being.  He  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  beneficent  operation  of  the  law  of  change,  to 
find  that  sorrow  was  not  meant  to  be  the  life-tenant  of  any 
human  heart.  If  he  had  met  Carice  under  other  circum 
stances,  less  calculated  to  throw  him  off  his  guard,  he 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS.  447 

would  doubtless  have  approved  himself  master  of  the 
situation ;  meeting  her  with  calm  cousinly  courtesy  and 
kindness,  and  stifling  only  a  momentary  pang  in  his  deep 
heart.'  But  seeing  her  thus, — pale,  motionless,  uncon 
scious, — dying,  perhaps,  if  not  already  dead, — flung  back 
at  his  feet,  for  sympathy  and  succor,  by  some  mysterious 
turn  of  the  same  tide  of  circumstance  which  had  borne  ber 
away, — a  lost  jewel,  restored  after  many  days, — it  is 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that,  for  one  moment,  as  he 
knelt  by  the  inanimate  form,  he  forgot  all  the  sorrowful 
past  in  the  anxiety  of  the  present,  and  touched  the  mute 
lips  with  the  warm  kiss  of  a  love  which,  though  long 
repressed  and  slumbering,  seemed  now  to  have  neither 
wasted  nor  died. 

He  soon  recollected  himself,  however;  when,  seeing 
that  Carice  still  breathed,  and  was  probably  only  stunned 
by  her  fall,  he  at  once  addressed  himself  to  the  considera 
tion  of  the  serious  question  what  was  to  be  done  with  her. 
She  had  fled  suddenly,  it  would  seem,  led  by  some  wild, 
uncontrollable  impulse ;  nothing  shielded  her  from  chill  or 
from  observation  but  a  nightdress  and  a  light  shawl ;  on 
one  foot  was  a  thin  slipper,  the  other  was  bare  and  bleed 
ing;  and  her  dishevelled  hair  fell  round  her  shoulders, 
some  locks  of  which,  he  now  noticed,  were  encrimsoned  by 
blood  flowing  from  a  deep  cut  in  her  head. 

He  glanced  quickly  round ;  the  dawn  was  yet  gray, 
there  was  no  one  astir  at  the  Hall,  and  probably  not  at 
Oakstead ;  unless  she  had  been  missed,  there  was  still  time 
to  save  her  from  what,  he  knew,  she  would  feel  to  be  worse 
than  death,  when  fully  restored  to  consciousness.  He  lifted 
her  in  his  arms — it  went  to  his  heart,  even  at  that  moment, 
to  feel  how  thin  and  light  she  was — and  bore  her  swiftly  to 
the  door  of  her  home.  There  Mr.  Bergan  and  Rosa  met 
him;  they  had  just  discovered  her  absence,  but  had  not 
given  the  alarm;  they  were  still  too  bewildered  to  know 
precisely  what  steps  should  be  taken  for  her  recovery. 


4:18  1IOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

Bergan  carried  her  to  the  library,  and  laid  her  on  the  sofa. 

As  he  did  so,  she  opened  her  eyes,  turned  from  him  to  Mr, 

Bergan,  and  cried  out,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  entreaty  and 

determination ; — 

"  Father,  I  cannot  "be  Doctor  Remy's  wife !  " 

Bergan  looked  at  his  uncle  with  a  mixture  of  surprise 

and  apprehension.     "  She  is  delirious,"  said  he. 

"  No,  thank  God ! "  answered  Mr.  Bergan,  with  a  look 

of  ineffable  relief  and  gladness;    "she  is  herself  again — 

clothed  and  in  her  right  nimd." 


PAET  FIFTH. 

A  BETTER     HARVEST. 


I. 

A   CLOUD   FOB   A   COVERING. 

twelvemonth  gone  by  had  not  passed  lightly  over 
Godfrey  Bergan.  He  was  not  the  same  man  who 
had  refused  so  peremptorily  to  listen  to  Bergan,  on 
that  memorable  eve  of  Carice's  wedding.  Not  only  had 
lie  grown  grayer  and  thinner,  slower  of  gait  and  heavier  of 
step  ;  not  only  were  his  shoulders  bent  and  his  head  droop 
ing  ;  but  his  face  wore  an  expression  of  settled  gravity, 
bordering  on  melancholy,  and  his  manner  was  gentle, 
almost  to  submissiveness.  Since  the  night  when  he  had 
staggered  into  the  cabin  of  the  trusty  Bruno,  bending 
under  the  weight  of  his  dripping  burden,  he  had  never,  in 
one  sense,  laid  it  down.  The  thought  that  he  had  forced 
his  daughter  into  a  marriage  so  abhorrent  to  her  that  she 
had  been  fain  to  escape  from  it  through  the  awful  door  of 
suicide,  had  never  ceased  to  haunt  his  mind,  and  burden  his 
heart  and  his  conscience. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the  fall  from  the  bridge 
was  accidental,  inasmuch  as  Rosa  had  deemed  it  her  duty 
to  keep  inviolate  the  secret  of  her  young  mistress's  errand 
abroad  on  that  night ;  lie  was  therefore  unable  to  conjec 
ture  why  Carice  should  have  sought  the  river-side  at  so 
inopportune  an  hour,  except  with  a  purpose  of  self-destruc- 


450  JIOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

tion.  Nor  did  it  give  him  any  comfort  to  reflect  that  her 
mind  must  have  been  set  all  ajar,  before  she  would  have 
resorted  to  so  desperate  an  expedient;  that  only  lifted  the 
terrible  responsibility  from  her  shoulders  to  lay  it  more 
crushingly  on.  his  own.  It  was  he,  who,  without  giving  her 
time  to  recover  from  the  shock  of  Bergan's  apparent  infi 
delity,  or  the  fatigue  and  anxiety  occasioned  by  his  own 
illness,  had  urged  her  into  a  union  with  a  man  for  whom  she 
persistently  asserted  that  she  neither  had,  nor  would  ever 
be  likely  to  have,  any  warmer  feeling  than  respect  for  his 
intellectual  attainments,  and  admiration  for  his  professional 
skill  and  devotion.  To  be  sure,  he  had  done  it  solely  with 
a  view  to  her  happiness, — doing  evil  that  good  might  come, 
and  finding  too  late  that  "  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that 
shall  he  reap." 

First,  on  that  woful  night,  he  had  carried  Carice  to 
Bruno's  cabin,  partly  because  it  was  nearer  to  the  scene  of 
the  disaster,  a:id  partly  because  he  feared  to  encounter  some 
lingering  guest  or  indiscreet  servant,  if  he  took  her  to  the 
cottage.  Fortunately,  Bruno  and  his  wife  were  both 
within ;  and  the  latter  immediately  applied  herself  to  the 
work  of  restoration  according  to  her  lights  ;  while  the 
former  was  dispatched,  with  suitable  injunctions  to  be 
secret  and  expeditious,  to  bring  more  efficient  aid  in  the 
person  of  Doctor  Remy. 

It  soon  appeared  that — thanks  to  her  father's  prompt 
ness — Carice  had  sustained  little  injury  from  her  immersion 
in  the  water;  but,  though  heart  and  lungs  were  quickly 
brought  to  resume  their  functions,  her  senses  remained  fast 
locked  in  stupor.  Knitting  his  brows,  for  a  brief  space, 
over  this  \inexpected  complication,  Doctor  Remy  betook 
himself  to  a  careful  examination  of  the  patient's  head ;  and 
shortly  announced  that  he  had  discovered  a  severe  contu 
sion  of  the  skull,  implying  more  or  less  serious  injury  to 
the  brain. 

The  stupor  would   last  hours — possibly    days.     Mean- 


A   CLOUD   FOR   A   COVERING.  451 

while,  many  appliances  and  comforts  which  the  cabin  could 
not  afford,  would  be  demanded ;  he  therefore  advised  her 
immediate  removal  to  the  cottage.  Mr.  Bergan  hastened 
to  break  the  distressing  news  to  her  mother,  and  to  make 
sure  that  the  house  and  grounds  were  clear ;  then  Carice 
was  carefully  placed  on  a  litter,  and  borne  to  her  own  room. 

It  was  long  before  she  showed  any  sign  of  conscious 
ness,  longer  still  before  she  was  free  from  the  supervening 
fever  and  delirium,  and  capable  of  coherent  thought  and 
expression.  When  that  time  came,  it  was  found  that  her 
memory  of  the  past  five  months  was  a  blank.  Bergan's  unac 
countable  silence,  her  father's  trying  illness,  Doctor  Remy.'s 
unacceptable  suit,  and  the  ill-starred  marriage  ceremony — 
everything  which  had  distressed  her  mind  or  wounded  her 
heart,  had  been  completely  wiped  out  of  her  recollection  as 
by  some  friendly,  pitying  hand  ;  and  she  was  carried  back, 
all  unconscious  of  the  transit,  to  the  tender  joy  and  bliss 
ful  content  with  which  she  had  parted  from  Bergan.  To 
her  thought  it  was  only  a  few  days  since  he  went ;  yet,  with 
a  pleasant  inconsequence,  she  was  already  beginning  to 
watch  for  his  return.  At  first,  she  had  seemed  a  little  be 
wildered  by  the  change  of  season ;  it  was  amidst  the  flower 
and  foliage  of  early  summer  that  Bergan  had  said  good 
bye;  now,  the  deciduous  trees  stood  bare  against  the  sky, 
and  the  flower-beds  were  shorn  of  their  glory.  But  her 
mind  was  too  feeble  to  reason,  and  she  soon  accepted  the 
fact,  as  she  did  many  another,  without  trying  to  account 
for  it.  Enough  to  know  that,  winter  being  near,  Bergan 
must  be  near  also. 

It  may  be  noted  as  a  curiously  ironical  turn  of  that 
blind  Chance,  or  Fate,  in  which  Doctor  Remy  believed, 
that  he  was  compelled,  in  his  professional  capacity,  to  give 
orders  that  Carice  should  be  cai'efully  humored,  for  the 
present,  in  this  or  any  other  delusion.  There  was  some 
thing  at  stake  of  far  more  importance,  to  him,  than  his  per 
sonal  feelings  as  a  man  or  a  bridegroom — namely,  the  own- 


452  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

crsbip  of  Bergan  Hall.  In  consideration  of  that,  Carieo 
must  be  spared  everything  tending  to  excite  or  distress  her, 
and  indulged  in  whatever  was  soothing  to  her  mind,  or 
pleasing  to  her  fancy. 

Meanwhile,  he  addressed  himself,  with  renewed  ardor 
and  determination,  to  the  study  of  brain  diseases.  His 
attention  had  already  been  engaged  by  the  recently  pi-o- 
mulged  theory  of  Gall,  that  each  faculty  of  the  mind  had 
its  distinct  location  in  the  brain  ;  and  he  was  quick  to  see 
the  fine  field  thereby  opened  to  pathological  investigation. 
It  was  in  this  direction  that  he  hoped,  some  day,  to  make 
his  name  famous ;  and  it  was  chiefly  as  a  means  to  this  end 
that  Bergan  Hall  was  valuable  in  his  eyes.  He  wanted 
wealth  in  order  to  be  able  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to 
the  study  of  this  branch  of  medical  science,  and  to  pursue 
it,  unhampered  by  considerations  of  expense,  throughout 
the  books  and  manuscripts,  the  practitioners  and  patients, 
the  hospitals  and  asylums,  the  morgues  and  the  dissecting- 
rooms,  of  the  whole  world.  Till  he  could  do  that,  he  must 
content  himself  with  the  one  patient  whom  circumstance 
had  thrown  into  his  hands. 

But  here,  he  was  unexpectedly  disappointed,  in  a  meas 
ure.  Whether  it  were  that  enough  of  her  recollection 
revived  to  associate  him  dimly  with  anxiety  and  distress ; 
or  whether,  her  reason  being  in  abeyance,  she  was  more 
controlled  by  her  pure  and  delicate  instincts ;  certain  it  is, 
that  Carice's  fever  no  sooner  left  her,  than  she  developed 
the  most  unconquerable  aversion  to  him,  amounting  in 
time  to  a  degree  of  terror.  At  his  approach,  she  either 
hid  her  face,  and  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf,  or  she  fled 
with  cries  of  fright.  And  these  moments  of  excitement 
were  followed  by  such  alarming  prostration,  that  Doctor 
Remy  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  admit  the  necessity  of 
keeping  out  of  her  sight.  His  investigations  had  thence 
forth  to  be  conducted  through  the  agency  of  her  parents 
or  of  Rosa.  Now  and  then,  when  she  slept, — and  her 


A   CLOUD   FOR   A   COVERING.  453 

sleep  was  always  singularly  profound,  the  very  twin  bro 
ther  of  death, — he  stole  into  her  room,  to  acquaint  himself 
with  some  particular  of  the  location,  depth,  or  progress  in 
healing,  of  the  injury  to  her  head,  and  to  satisfy  himself  of 
the  state  of  her  general  health. 

To  every  one  but  Doctor  Remy,  Carice  was  gentleness 
itself.  She  was  happiness,  too,  in  a  touchingly  quiet, 
dreamy,  illogical  foi-m.  She  was  content  to  spend  hours 
at  the  window,  watching  for  the  first  glimpse  of  Bergan, 
with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  bright  with  eager 
expectation ;  and  though  she  sometimes  sighed,  when  the 
day  ended,  and  lie  did  not  come,  she  wras  ready  to  begin 
the  same  hopeful  watch  on  the  morrow,  and  never  seemed 
to  know  how  long  it  had  lasted.  As  she  grew  stronger,  she 
resumed,  in  some  measure,  her  old  pursuits  ; — she  busied 
herself  with  light  household  tasks ;  she  wrought  dainty 
embroideiy  with  silks  and  worsteds ;  she  read,  chiefly 
poetry,  the  music  of  which  seemed  to  please  her  ear,  with 
out  fatiguing  her  mind  ;  she  even  noticed  the  cloud  on  her 
father's  brow,  and  made  gentle  war  upon  it, — conquering, 
of  course,  as  long  as  he  was  in  her  sight,  and  never  sus 
pecting  how  heavily  it  settled  back  afterward.  But  all 
this  time,  the  veil  over  the  past  never  lifted,  nor  was  the 
eager  watch  for  Bergan  ever  abandoned. 

The  few  intimate  friends,  or  the  servants  not  of  the 
household,  who  saw  her  occasionally,  noticed  nothing  un 
usual  about  her,  except  the  delicacy  and  languor  conse 
quent  upon  a  severe  illness  ;  Mrs.  Bergau  being  always 
present  to  turn  the  conversation  away  from  every  danger 
ous  point,  and  guide  it  through  safe  channels.  To  the  rest 
of  the  world,  it  was  simply  known  that  Carice  had  sud 
denly  been  stricken  down,  on  her  wedding  night,  by  a 
fever,  supposed  to  be  of  the  same  nature  as  the  one  which 
had  lately  prostrated  her  father;  and  that  she  was  not  yet 
sufficiently  strong  to  show  herself  abroad,  or  see  much 
company  at  home.  Doctor  Remy,  meanwhile,  came  and 


454  HOLDEN  wrm  THE  CORDS. 

went,  and  spent  as  much  time  at  the  cottage  as  could  rea 
sonably  be  expected  of  a  physician  with  a  large  area  of 
practice,  and  an  office  three  miles  away  from  his  nominal 
home.  Not  a  person,  outside  of  the  limited  household, 
supposed  that  he  never  saw  Carice,  except  when  she  was 
fast  asleep,  and  totally  iinconscious  of  his  presence. 

So  the  months  rolled  away,  and  the  year  drew  near  to 
its  close.  Doctor  Remy  had  prosecuted  his  abstruse  study, 
by  the  dim  light  of  the  science  of  that  day,  with  charac 
teristic  energy  and  acuteness.  He  had  slowly  felt  his  way, 
from  the  premise  that  each  faculty  of  the  mind  had  its 
appropriate  seat  in  the  brain,  to  the  conclusion  that  every 
local  injury  or  disease  would  affect  mainly  the  faculty  cor 
responding  to  the  injured  or  diseased  portion,  thereby  not 
only  indicating  the  seat  of  the  impaired  faculty,  but  sug 
gesting  the  possibility  of  a  local  remedy  for  the  local  dis 
turbance, — probably  a  delicate  and  difficult  surgical  opera 
tion,  to  remove  pus,  slivers  of  bone,  or  other  foreign  matter 
pressing  upon,  piercing,  or  otherwise  irritating  the  sensitive 
cellular  tissue  of  the  brain.  Now,  he  only  longed  for  an 
opportunity  to  test  his  conclusions  by  experiment,  and 
would  certainly  have  attempted  to  use  Carice  for  this 
purpose,  except  that  on  her  slender  thread  of  life  hung  his 
only  chance  of  Bergan  Hall.  It  would  not  do  to  sacrilice 
the  immense  future  advantage  to  the  small  immediate 
gain. 

Nature,  meanwhile,  was  laboring  in  her  slow,  gentle 
way,  to  effect  the  same  end  contemplated  by  the  doctor's 
science.  With  the  beginning  of  November,  a  change  was 
observable  in  Carice.  Her  sweet  face  lost  its  look  of  happy 
anticipation,  and  grew  weary  and  anxious.  There  were 
tokens  that  she  was  besnnninrj  to  reason  again,  in  a  fitful, 

O  ~  O  '  ' 

fragmentary  way,  and  to  notice  seme  of  the  many  discrep 
ancies  between  the  facts  and  the  theories  of  her  life ; 
sometimes  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head  with  a  piteous 
expression  of  doubt  and  bewilderment.  By  and  by,  she 


A   CLOUD    FOR    A    COVERING.  455 

became  possessed  of  a  spirit  of  restlessness  by  day,  and  of 
sleeplessness  by  night ;  making  the  care  of  her — hitherto 
an  easy  and  a  pleasant  task — a  sufficiently  onerous  charge. 
Thus  it  happened  that  she  had  made  her  escape  to  the 
Hall,  as  heretofore  narrated.  Her  night  had  been  restless, 
beyond  all  previous  precedent,  keeping  Rosa  constantly  on 
the  watch.  Toward  dawn,  she  had  fallen  into  a  light  slum 
ber,  during  which  the  weary  attendant,  sitting  quietly  by 
the  bedside,  had  suddenly  been  overcome  by  a  profound 
sleep.  Waking  ere  long,  and  not  wishing  to  disturb  her 
tired  maid,  Carice  stole  softly  to  the  window,  to  look  out, 
as  usual,  for  Bergan's  coming,  and  saw  the  light  shining 
again  from  the  window  of  his  room  in  the  old  Hall.  The 
broken  links  in  the  chain  of  association  were  stirred,  if  not 
reunited, — perhaps  a  dim  reminiscence  of  her  former  at 
tempt  to  reach  him  woke  within  her, — she  wrapped  herself 
in  the  first  shawl  that  came  to  hand,  thrust  her  feet  into  a 
pair  of  slippers,  and  noiselessly  made  her  way  out  of  the 
house  and  down  to  the  river,  exactly  as  she  had  done  a 
year  before.  At  the  gap  in  the  foot-bridge,  through  which 
she  had  fallen,  she  stopped  and  put  her  hand  to  her  brow, 
in  a  momentary  perplexity.  Here,  her  memory  of  the  for 
mer  expedition,  which  had  led  her  thus  far  on  her  way, 
failed  her ; — what  was  she  to  do  next  ? 

Lifting  her  eyes,  she  again  caught  sight  of  the  light 
from  the  Hall,  which  had  recently  been  hidden  by  the 
trees.  Her  lips  parted  in  a  smile  ;  her  hesitation  was  at  an 
end.  Clinging  to  the  hand-rail  of  the  bridge,  and  sliding 
her  feet  carefully  along  the  great  beam  underneath,  she 
safely  passed  the  gap, — though  she  lost  a  slipper  in  the 
transit, — and  then  hurried  to  the  Hall,  to  meet  with  the  ac 
cident  lately  described. 

All  of  the  foregoing  history — or  at  least  as  much  of  it  as 
was  known  to  him — Mr.  Bergau  recounted  to  his  nephew, 
in  a  long  conversation  held  in  the  parlor,  after  Carice  had 
been  soothed  by  her  father's  promise  that  she  should  be  com- 


456  HOLDEN    WITH   THE    CORDS. 

pelled  to  do  nothing  but  what  was  right  and  agreeable  in 
her  own  eyes,  and  left  to  the  care  of  her  mother  and 
Rosa.  Now,  too,  the  loss  of  Bergan's  letters  to  his  uncle 
and  Carice  was  discovered ;  the  false  or  distorted  statements 
in  those  of  Doctor  Remy  to  himself  were  brought  to  light 
and  discussed ;  finally,  Mr.  Bergan  was  glad  to  listen  to  a 
succinct  recital  of  Doctor  Trubie's  reasons  for  believing  Felix 
Remy  to  be  identical  with  Edmund  Roath. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  all  reserve  between 
the  uncle  and  nephew  insensibly  melted  away,  and  the  last 
topic  was  discussed  upon  terms  of  the  most  cordial  confi 
dence  and  sympathy.  Bergan's  high  reputation  in  Savalla 
had  not  failed  to  reach  his  uncle's  ears,  and  sometimes  to 
make  him  doubt  if  all  his  old  prejudice  was  well  founded  ; 
and  now,  there  was  so  much  dignity  and  gentleness  in  his 
bearing,  his  words  were  so  full  of  unselfish  consideration  for 
others,  he  showed  himself  so  ready  still,  as  heretofore,  to 
sacrifice  every  merely  personal  feeling  to  Carice's  welfare, 
that  Mr.  Bergan's  heart,  softened  and  humbled  as  it  had 
been  by  adversity,  was  irresistibly  won.  He  was  glad  to 
feel  that  he  had  so  dispassionate  a  judgment,  so  wise  a  coun 
sellor,  and  so  kind  a  friend,  to  lean  upon,  in  this  moment 
of  perplexity. 

The  talk  was  broken  in  upon  by  a  message  from  Mrs. 
Bergan.  Carice,  after  her  manifold  questions  in  regard 
to  the  circumstances  in  which  she  found  herself  had  been 
answered  or  evaded,  had  sunk  into  a  deep,  but  appa 
rently  natural  sleep.  r.  Still,  her  mother  could  not  but  be  ex 
tremely  anxious  about  her ;  and  she  suggested  that  Doctor 
Rcmy,  or  some  one  else,  should  be  immediately  sent  for,  to 
provide  against  the  contingency  of  her  waking. 

Mr.  Bergan  looked  anxiously  at  his  nephew.  "After 
what  you  have  told  me,"  said  he,  "  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can 
allow  that  man  to  enter  Carice's  room  aajain,  even  when 

o  / 

she  is  sleeping.  Yet,  be  he  what  or  whom  he  may, 
his  professional  skill  is  undeniable,  and  her  life  or  rea- 


A   CLOUD   FOR   A   COVERING.  457 

son  may  turn  on  those  waking  moments.     What  is  to  be 
done  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  to  be  found  ?  "  asked  Ber- 
gan. 

"  No.  He  merely  told  me  that  he  had  a  critical  case  on 
hand,  which  would  keep  him  out  all  night,  and  perhaps 
we  should  not  see  him  before  noon  to-day.  I  suppose  he 
can  be  heard  of  at  his  office." 

Bergan  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  By  this  time,"  said 
he,  "  Doctor  Gerrish  must  be  on  his  way  to  the  Hall.  From 
what  I  have  known  and  heard  of  him,  I  believe  him  to  be 
both  a  promising  physician  and  an  honorable  man.  Send 
Bruno  to  intercept  him,  on  the  plea  that  the  dead  can  wait 
for  his  services  better  than  the  living.  Then  tell  him,  in 
strict  confidence,  enough  of  Carice's  condition  to  make  him 
understand  the  case ;  but  you  need  say  nothing  of  Doctor 
Remy,  except  that  he  is  not  at  hand,  and  you  feared  to 
Avait.  Finally,  ask,  as  a  special  favor,  that  he  will  not  men 
tion  his  visit  to  Doctor  Remy,  lest  the  latter  be  annoyed. 
He  will  think  you  weak  and  overscrupulous,  but  he  will 
promise." 

This  advice  was  acted  upon.  Doctor  Gerrish,  after  lis 
tening  to  Mr.  Bergan's  statement  and  examining  Carice  as 
she  lay  asleep,  decided  that  the  recent  wound,  which  was  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  former  one,  had,  in  some  myste 
rious  way,  relieved  the  inflammation,  or  counteracted  the 
injury,  caused  by  that — in  short,  had  done  precisely  what 
Doctor  Remy  proposed  to  do  by  means  of  an  operation. 
He  furthermore  believed  that  Natm-e  was  making  her  final 
effort  at  restoration  through  the  deep  sleep  which  held  Ca- 
ricc  in  bonds  so  gentle  and  so  firm  ;  and  he  gave  strict  01*- 
ders  that  nothing  should  be  suffered  to  break  it.  It  would 
doubtless  last  some  hours,  perhaps  the  whole  day  ;  or  if 
she  woke,  it  would  be  merely  to  swallow  a  little  nourish 
ment,  which  should  be  given  her,  and  then  to  fall  asleep 
a^ain. 

•*-> 

20 


458  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

Bergan  had  waited  to  hear  this  decision,  and  he  now 
requested  Doctor  Gcrrish  to  ride  on  to  the  Hall,  where  he 
would  join  him  almost  immediately,  by  the  shorter  way  of 
the  foot-bridge.  His  uncle  detained  him  longer  than  he  ex 
pected,  however,  for  a  final  consultation  about  several  im 
portant  matters  ;  and  he  was  conscious  that  Doctor  Gerrish 
must  have  been  kept  waiting  for  a  considerable  time,  when 
he  finally  quitted  the  house.  Hurrying  to  the  foot-bridge, 
he  saw  two  rough-looking  men  crossing  it  from  the  direction 
of  the  Hall.  At  sight  of  him,  they  interchanged  a  few 
words,  and  then  came  to  meet  him. 

"  Mr.  Arling,  I  believe,"  said  one,  touching  his  hat. 
"  We  have  been  asking  at  the  Hall  for  you,  and  a  doctor 
that  we  saw  there  told  us  that  you  were  coming  this  way, 
and  asked  us  to  say,  if  we  met  you,  that  he  begged  you 
would  hurry." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Bergan.  "  That  is  what  I  am 
doing." 

"  Not  so  fast,"  interrupted  the  other,  who  was  a  tall, 
muscular  fellow  with  a  sinister  countenance.  "  You  are 
that  Lawyer  Arling,  I  reckon,  who  got  my  brother  sen 
tenced  to  state  prison  last  month  for  burglary." 

"  I  did  my  duty  as  prosecuting  attorney  for  the  State, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  replied  Bergan,  coolly. 

"  You  did,  did  you  ?  Well,  I'm  going  to  do  mine,  which 
is  to  knock  you  down  for  it." 

With  these  words,  the  man  raised  his  powerful  fist. 
Bergan  instinctively  threw  himself  into  the  attitude  of 
defence;  but  the  ruffian's  companion,  who  had  edged 
behind  him,  caught  hold  of  both  his  arms  ;  and  the  unpar- 
ried  blow  felled  him  senseless  to  the  ground. 


II. 

SWIFT  FEET. 

HOWEVER  cold  a  man's  temperament  may  be  by 
nature,  however  complete  the  subjection  of  his 
passions  to  his  reason  and  his  will,  he  is  nearly  cer 
tain,  in  the  sudden  excitement  and  confusion  of  detected 
guilt,  to  be  betrayed  into  some  act  instantly  condemned  by 
his  better  judgment.  Such  had  been  the  case  with  Doctor 
Remy,  in  his  encounter  with  Hubert  Arling  at  the  "  Rat- 
Hole."  Mistaking  Hubert  for  Bergan,  and  believing  him 
to  be  there  only  to  spy  out  his  actions  and  thwart  his 
designs,  it  had  been  his  first  impulse  to  draw  the  pistol, 
which  he  habitually  carried,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
times  and  locality,  and  free  himself  at  once  and  forever 
from  interference  that  he  conceived  to  be  so  dangerous. 
His  chagrin  at  finding  that  he  had  mistaken  one  brother 
for  the  other,  was  only  equalled  by  his  surprise  at  his  calm 
dismissal  and  friendly  warning,  at  Bergan's  hands.  It  did 
not  take  him  long  to  fix  upon  the  hidden  motive  of  this 
conduct, — to  decide,  with  a  bitter  smile,  that  he  had  been 
spared  for  the  sake  of  Carice. 

Yet  he  had  no  idea  of  the  extent  of  Bergan's  forbearance 
toward"  him  on  this  head.  It  must  be  remembered  that 
he  never  received  the  slightest  intimation  of  Doctor  Tru- 
bie's  suspicions,  or  of  Bergan's  visit  to  Oakstead,  on  the 
night  of  the  wedding.  Godfrey  Bergan  had  omitted  any 
mention  of  either ;  first,  because  he  had  been  prevented 
from  doing  so  by  the  overwhelming  distress  and  anxiety 
that  had  come  upon  him  so  suddenly ;  and  afterward,  be 
cause  it  had  seemed  wiser,  on  the  whole,  to  say  nothing. 


4CO  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    COKDS. 

Doctor  Remy,  therefore,  had  no  suspicion  of  the  mine  over 
which  he  had  been  standing,  on  that  night,  nor  how  its 
explosion  had  been  averted.  From  his  point  of  view,  Ber- 
gan's  sudden  removal  to  Savalla,  in  consideration  of  the 
prospect  there  opened  to  him,  was  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world.  Nor  did  he  know  any  reason  why  himself  and  his 
former  friend  should  not  meet  on  the  old  terms,  upon  occa 
sion,  except  that  the  gain  of  the  one  had  been  the  loss  of  the 
othei*,  in  respect  to  Carice.  Even  here,  however,  he  held 
himself  to  be  ostensibly  blameless,  inasmuch  as  womankind 
was  proverbially  fickle,  and  Bergan  had  no  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  he  was  aware  of  any  relation  between  him  and 
Carice  other  than  the  outward  one.  He  deeply  regretted, 
therefore,  that  in  a  moment  of  surprise  and  confusion,  he 
should  have  put  himself  in  a  false  position.  It  would  have 
been  far  better  to  have  met  Bergan  with  the  careless  ease  of  a 
conscience  void  of  offence.  But,  since  he  had  not  done  so, 
it  was  well  that  Carice  was  his  sufficient  safeguard  against 
retaliation. 

Yet  one  word  had  fallen  from  Bergan's  lips,  which  had 
startled  him  at  the  moment,  and  haunted  him  on  his  way 
homeward.  The  young  man  had  seriously  bidden  him  be 
thankful  that  he  was  saved  from  "  another  crime."  Was 
the  phrase  accidental,  or  did  it  imply  some  knowledge  of 
the  affair  of  the  will  ?  In  the  latter  case,  was  it  likely  that 
Bergan  would  submit  to  the  loss  of  what  he  had  been 
encouraged,  at  one  time,  to  consider  his  lawful  inheritance, 
without  a  most  rigid  scrutiny  and  investigation  of  the  docu 
ment  by  which,  while  the  property  was  apparently  given  to 
Carice,  it  was  done  in  such  a  way  as  to  place  it  absolutely  in 
her  husband's  control.  Would  Bergan's  forbearance  toward 
her  and  hers  be  likely  to  extend  as  far  as  this  ?  Judging  by 
himself,  and  his  experience  of  men  in  genei'al,  and  especially 
of  heirs,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  it  would  not.  For, 
though  Bergan  had  seemed  to  be  possessed  of  some  unusually 
Quixotic  notions  of  honor,  independence,  and  disinterested- 


SWIFT   FEET.  4G1 

ness,  during  the  period  of  their  intimate  association,  he 
had  doubtless  seen  enough  of  life  since  then,  to  grow  more 
sensible.  What,  then,  had  he  not  to  dread  from  his  nat 
ural  acuteness  and  legal  skill,  when  both  of  these,  sharp 
ened  by  interest,  should  be  brought  to  bear  on  the  false 
will? 

Absorbed  in  these  reflections,  he  had  allowed  his  horse 
to  choose  his  own  pace,  which  had  gradually  slackened 
from  a  gallop  to  a  trot,  and  then  into  a  walk,  until,  at  last, 
he  was  easily  overtaken  by  Dick  Causton,  in  whose  eyes 
there  still  shone  a  humorous  twinkle. 

"Those  Arlings  seem  to  be  pretty  much  of  a  piece," 
said  he  ;  "  they  both  give  better  than  they  take,  when  it 
comes  to  blows.  However,  the  Italians  say,  Tutto  s'accom- 
moda^  eccetto  Posso  del  collo, — that  means,  Everything  can 
be  mended  except  the  neck-bone.  Yours  has  come  safe 
out  of  this  fray,  but  there's  no  telling  how  long  'twill  stay 
so,  if  you're  so  ready  with  your  pistol." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  exclaimed  Doctor  Remy,  angrily.  "  I  am 
in  no  mood  for  jesting.  Do  you  suppose  that  Arling  got 
any  clue  to  our  business  in  that  den  ?  " 

"How  should  he? — 'A  man  doesn't  look  behind  the 
door  unless  he  has  been  there  himself.'  Besides,  Mr. 
Arling  minds  his  own  business, — which  I  wish  I  did  ! — then 
I  shouldn't  have  run  from  him  like  a  dog  caught  stealing. 
By  the  way,  Doctor,  if  the  Major  makes  another  will,  which 
cuts  the  throat  of  this  one  of  ours,  I  suppose  the  forgery 
goes  for  nothing  ?  " 

Doctor  Remy  looked  at  him  darkly.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is  he  thinking  of  making  another  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  replied  Dick.  "  But,  '  At  the 
game's  end,  see  who  wins/  There  is  time  for  him  to  make 
a  dozen  before  he  dies." 

"  We  will  see  about  that !  "  muttei'ed  the  doctor. 

"  And  if  he  does,"  persisted  Dick, "  our  will  goes  for 
naught,  of  course, — won't  even  be  looked  at,  I  suppose. 


462  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

They'll  '  trust  to  the  label  of  the  bag,'  seeing  there's  no 
necessity  for  opening  it !  " 

Doctor  Remy  stopped  short,  and  eyed  his  companion 
suspiciously.  "  See  here,  Dick,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  deter 
mined  tone,  "  you  had  better  not  venture  to  try  any  double 
dealing  with  me.  I  will  have  you  to  know  that  I  can  put 
you  in  prison,  any  day  ;  and  I  will  do  it,  too,  even  though  I 
have  to  go  along  with  you,  if  you  falter  one  step  in  the 
course  I  have  marked  out  for  you.  Having  begun  with  me 
in  this  business,  you  will  find  it  for  your  interest,  in  more 
senses  than  one,  to  help  me  through  with  it." 

"That  is  to  say,"  muttered  Dick,  ruefully,  "Die  met 
den  duivel  ingescheept  is,  moet  met  hem  overvaren, — Having 
embarked  with  the  Devil,  you  have  got  to  sail  with  him. ' 

The  sound  of  that  word  "  prison "  was  by  no  means 
agreeable  in  his  ears.  He  had  all  a  vagabond's  love  for 
open  air  and  sunshine,  and  liberty  to  go  and  come  at  his 
own  fitful  will.  He  sickened  at  the  bare  idea  of  prison 
walls  between  him  and  the  sky,  prison  bars  between  him 
and  the  fresh,  roving  air,  prison  restraints  upon  his  freedom 
of  action. 

Doctor  Remy  saw  the  impression  that  he  had  made,  and 
proceeded : — "  Wherefore,  if  you  hear,  or  have  heard,  the 
Major  express  any  intention  of  making  a  new  will,  I  need 
not  suggest  the  propi'iety  of  your  giving  me  immediate 
warning."  The  form  of  the  sentence  was  that  of  an  asser 
tion,  but  the  tone  was  interrogative. 

"Dictum  sapienti  sat  est,"  answered  Dick,  sulkily,  deny 
ing  himself  the  pleasure  of  translating,  and  immediately 
closing  his  lips  tight,  as  if  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  say 
another  Avord. 

In  this  mood,  Doctor  Remy  thought  it  better  not  to 
press  him  further.  He  had  been  made  to  see  that  he  was 
in  his  power,  and  had  even  yielded  a  reluctant  assent  to  his 
will ;  this  was  gain  enough  for  the  present.  So,  having 
reached  the  point  where  the  roads  diverged,  he  bade  Dick 


SWIFT   FEET.  463 

a  smiling  "  Good-day,"  aird  turned  off  toward  the  Hall ; 
which,  it  occurred  to  him,  it  might  be  worth  while  to  visit, 
for  the  chance  of  securing  useful  shreds  of  information,  or 
of  substituting  the  false  will  for  the  true  one. 

Dick  Causton  looked  after  him  with  a  moody,  discon 
tented  brow.  "  I  am  like  a  leek,  a  gray  head,  and  all  the  rest 
green,"  he  groaned  to  himself.  "  I  thought  I  had  made  a 
mighty  sharp  bargain,  but  it  turns  out  that  I've  only  sold 
myself  to  the  Devil,  to  fetch  and  carry  at  his  bidding.  I 
really  gave  myself  credit  for  more  sense ;  but,  Do  entra 
beber,  sale  saber,  When  the  drink's  in,  the  wit's  out." 

With  the  last  words,  Dick  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
It  was  nothing  new  to  find  that  his  darling  sin  was  an 
inclined  plane,  down  which  he  continually  slid  into  the 
grasp  of  divers  other  sins,  less  to  his  taste;  but  never 
before  had  it  done  him  so  unkind  a  trick  as  to  fling  him 
into  the  hands  of  a  man  quick  to  see,  and  unscrupulous  to 
use,  the  chance  of  turning  him  to  account.  Yet  so  com 
pletely  had  all  courage  and  energy  of  will  died  out  of  him, 
and  so  thoroughly  was  he  scared  at  the  idea  of  a  prison  as 
a  possible  termination  of  his  career,  that  he  dared  propose 
to  himself  only  a  feeble  and  covert  resistance  to  Doctor 
Remy's  stern  domination.  There  was  present  safety  in 
outward  submission ;  and  as  for  the  future  ! — he  smiled  in 
spite  of  his  discomfiture. 

At  the  Hall,  Doctor  Remy  was  a  little  startled  to  find 
Major  Bergan  in  the  clutch  of  so  severe  an  attack  of  deli 
rium  tremens  that  death  was  likely  to  be  the  speedy  result. 
It  did  not  suit  his  plans  that  the  Major's  decease  should 
follow  so  quickly  upon  the  completion  of  the  forged  will ; 
he  wanted  a  little  more  time  to  mark  out  and  make  smooth 
his  future  course,  and  obliterate  his  more  recent  track.  He 
therefore  set  to  work,  with  right  good  will,  and  science 
considerably  in  advance  of  the  times,  to  strengthen  and 
quiet  his  patient,  and  so  prolong  his  life ;  certain  that, 
whenever  the  strong  hand  of  medical  authority  was  with- 


HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

drawn,  he  would  immediately  drink  himself  into  a  relapse, 
which  could  be  allowed  to  prove  fatal.  His  efforts  were 
not  without  a  measure  of  success ;  in  three  hours,  he  had 
so  far  reduced  the  fever  and  excitement  that  he  ventured  to 
leave  Rue  in  charge,  while  he  paid  a  brief  visit  to  another 
patient,  who  had  sent  for  him  four  or  five  times  during  the 
evening.  This  desertion  of  his  post  was  fatal  to  him.  In 
spite  of  Rue's  best  endeavors,  Major  Bergan  succeeded  in 
getting  possession  of  the  brandy  bottle,  and  draining  it  to 
the  last  drop.  When  Doctor  Remy  returned,  it  was  to 
find  him  once  more  a  raving  maniac,  and  to  learn  to  his 
consternation,  that  Bergan  had  been  sent  for.  The  Major 
would  die,  there  was  no  help  for  that ;  but  something  must 
be  done  to  prevent  the  arrival  of  his  nephew  until  after  the 
true  will — and  all  other  wills — had  been  found  and  de 
stroyed,  and  the  false  one  put  in  its  place ; — even,  if  pos 
sible,  until  after  the  funeral  was  over,  the  will  read,  and 
the  property  put  into  his  own  hands.  Once  in  possession,  he 
had  reason  to  believe  that  he  could  not,  or  would  not,  be 
disturbed. 

His  stay  at  the  Major's  bedside  was  short,  and  princi 
pally  spent  in  profound  meditation ;  which  was  set  down 
by  the  lookers-on  to  the  account  of  his  deep  solicitude  for 
the  patient.  His  course  was  soon  decided  upon.  In  less 
than  two  hours  he  was  back  at  the  Rat-Hole,  in  deep  con 
versation  with  the  convalescent,  who  was  known  as  "  Big 
Ben."  Its  purport  may  be  gathered  from  the  closing 
remarks. 

"  You  hit  pretty  hard,  I  suppose,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Looks  like  it,  don't  it  ? "  returned  Big  Ben,  holding 
up  his  great  fist  for  inspection,  with  a  satisfied  smile. 
"  Make  yourself  easy ;  yonder  lawyer  won't  trouble  you 
with  any  cross-questions  for  a  month  to  come,  I'll  promise 
you  that.  He  won't  know  his  head  from  a  bread-and-milk 
poultice  to-morrow  morning,  if  he  ever  does." 

"  Take  care !  "    replied   the   doctor,  warningly ;    "  you 


SWIFT    FEET.  465 

know  I  don't  want  him  killed, — only  laid  up  for  two  or 
three  weeks,  and  indisposed  to  meddle  with  other  people's 
affairs." 

Big  Ben  smiled  grimly.  "  I'll  take  care  not  to  do  more 
than  stun  him,  on  your  account,  doctor,"  he  answered ; 
"  but  I  don't  say  what  I  shall  do,  on  my  brother's.  A  fel 
low  don't  always  weight  his  blows  exactly  to  suit  the  skull 
they  hit;  and  if  I  should  happen  to  put  an  end  to  him, 
without  meaning  it,  you  wouldn't  take  it  much  to  heart, 
would  ye?" 

Doctor  Remy  did  not  move  a  muscle  of  his  face,  but  his 
eyes  sparkled,  in  spite  of  himself.  Ben  laughed,  and  nod 
ded  his  head. 

"  Don't  trouble  yerself  to  answer,"  said  he ;  "I  under 
stand  you  well  enough  without." 

"But,  Ben — "  began  the  doctor,  in  a  tone  of  remon 
strance. 

"Enough  said,"  interrupted  the  ruffian,  impatiently. 
"  If  it's  me  you're  afeard  for,  I'll  jest  let  you  know  that  I've 
got  everything  fixed  to  leave  these  parts,  to-morrow  morn 
ing — I've  heard  of  a  better  opening  for  my  talents — so  I 
shall  be  off  before  this  affair  leaks  out.  As  for  you,  who 
knows  that  you've  got  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  It's  jest 
our  own  private  squarin'  of  accounts ;  that's  all.  You 
saved  my  life ;  I  squelch  this  lawyer  for  you.  At  the 
same  time  I  settle  up  with  him,  for  my  brother.  If  I  swing 
for't,  I'm  not  such  a  scoundrel  as  to  bring  you  in.  Now, 
I'm  off;  there's  scant  time  to  fix  things,  and  get  to  the 
Hall  by  day-break.  It's  too  late,  you  think,  to  stop  him 
on  the  way  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly ;  he  must  have  started  before  this." 

"  And  his  room  is  on  the  south-east  corner,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  windows  opening  on  the  second  piazza." 

However, — thanks    to   Carice, — the   room   was   empty 
when  Big  Ben  and  his  companion  looked  into  it.     Deter- 
20* 


4:>  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

mined  not  to  be  baffled  thus,  he  prowled  around  the  house, 
until  he  was  detected  by  Rue's  quick  ears  in  the  hall,  and 
asked  what  was  his  business ;  when  he  truthfully  replied 
that  he  was  seeking  for  Mr.  Arling.  Hearing  this,  Doctor 
Gerrish  came  forward,  stated  where  Bergan  could  probably 
be  found,  and  entrusted  Ben  with  the  message,  which,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  scrupulously  delivered.  Bergan  was  then 
knocked  down ;  and  the  inanimate  body  was  dragged  by 
the  two  ruffians  to  what  seemed  to  be  a  remote  point  of 
the  Oakstead  grounds,  where  it  would  not  be  likely  to  be 
discovered  for  some  hours,  perhaps  days.  There,  Ben 
debated  within  himself,  for  a  minute,  whether  he  would 
leave  it  its  small  remaining  chance  of  life  ;  but  he  remem 
bered  that  Bergan  had  seen  both  himself  and  his  comrade 
face  to  face,  and  would  be  able  to  identify  them,  on  occa 
sion.  He  drew  his  knife,  muttered,  "  Dead  men  tell  no 
tales,"  and  sheathed  it  in  the  young  man's  breast. 

As  he  stood  upright,  his  ear  caught  the  faint  jar  of  a 
closing  door,  followed  by  the  sound  of  slow  footsteps,  and 
a  cracked  voice  humming  a  song.  Apparently,  the  spot 
which  he  had  chosen,  lonely  as  it  seemed,  was  not  far  from 
some  human  dwelling.  He  and  his  companion  exchanged 
startled  glances,  plunged  into  the  underbrush,  and  fled 
silently  and  swiftly. 


III. 

FATALITY    OK   TEMPTATION? 

DOCTOR  REMY,  meanwhile,  had  made  all  possible 
speed  from  the  Rat-Hole  to  the  bedside  of  a  third 
patient ;  in  order  that  his  time,  on  that  night,  might 
seem  to  be  sufficiently  accounted  for  by  his  professional 
visits.  His  horse  was  swift,  and  he  had  not  spared  it  in  his 
recent  expedition  ;  it  would  seem  impossible  that  he  should 
have  been  at  points  so  wide  apart,  within  so  short  a  time. 
By  this  means  he  expected  to  secure  himself  from  Justice, 
in  her  human  shape ;  of  her  divine  form,  he  had  no  thought 
nor  fear.  Yet,  all  the  way,  a  voice  from  the  Past,  which 
sounded  curiously  like  his  own,  kept  echoing  in  his  ears, 
with  a  dull,  dead  intonation, — "  Crime  is  a  mistake." 

Well,  suppose  that  it  was,  he  had  committed  no  crime. 
He  had  merely  placed  a  particular  powder,  among  many 
others,  where  a  drunken  old  man,  whose  life  was  of  no  moment 
to  anybody,  could  take  it  or  not,  at  pleasure  ;  he  had  altered 
a  will  in  such  manner  as  to  give  him  absolute,  instead  of 
partial,  control  of  a  certain  property,  which  he  intended  to 
use  for  the  advance  of  science  and  the  benefit  of  the  race; 
and  he  had  provided  for  the  temporary  elimination  from 
affairs  of  a  person  likely  to  obstruct  their  proper  sequence. 
That  was  all.  What  was  there  in  it  to  cause  such  a  chill 
depression  of  spirits, — such  an  unreasoning  dread  of — he 
knew  not  what  ? 

Nothing,  we  may  be  sure,  that  was  patent  to  the  doc 
tor's  science.  Regarding  right  merely  as  another  term  for 
custom,  policy,  expediency,  and  conscience  as  a  softer  name 
for  cowardice,  he  was  not  likely  to  discern  clearly,  nor  ex- 


468  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  OOKDS. 

plain  correctly,  phenomena  by  which  even  a  lost  soul  now  and 
then  asserts  itself  as  of  another  nature  than  its  tabernacle 
of  dust,  subject  to  other  laws,  responsive  to  other  influen 
ces,  thrilled  Avith  other  pangs,  fears,  and  longings.  Never 
theless,  he  sought  for  an  answer  to  his  question,  and  found 
a  plausible  one  in  the  fact  that  he  was  physically  weary, 
and  therefore  mentally  ill  at  ease.  The  night,  too,  was 
cool  for  the  season,  no  wonder  that  some  of  its  chill  had 
gotten  into  his  mind  as  well  as  his  bones !  He  buttoned 
his  overcoat  more  closely  around  him,  and  spurred  on  his 
flagging  horse. 

Yet  he  did  not  shut  out  the  shiver,  nor  distance  the 
uneasiness.      Some  importunate  Cassandra  of  the  depths 
still  insisted  upon  its  clearness  of  vision,  in  respect  to  im 
pending  calamity.     Troubled  in  spite  of  himself,  he  passed 
his  recent  operations  in  cai'eful  review,  to  see  if  he  had  left 
any   loophole   open   to    invite    detection   or    impediment. 
None.     On  the  contrary,  all  seemed  safe  and  propitious. 
The  Major  was  dying,  or  dead,  in  consequence  of  his  own 
self-will  and  folly.     Bergan  Arling  would  shortly  be  dis 
abled,  or  killed, — but  by  another  man's  hand,  and  osten 
sibly — really,  even,  in  part — to  gratify  another  man's  thirst 
for  revenge.     The  Major's  will  had  been  found  and  de 
stroyed  ;  and  another — its  exact  counterpart,  except  for  the 
omission  of  a  few  absurd  conditions  and  restrictions — had 
been  put  in  its  place.     A  few  days  more,  and  the  vast  and 
valuable  Bergan  estate  would  be  his  own,  and  available  to 
his  ends.     If  his  road  to  its  possession  had  not  been  what 
men  accounted  straight  and   clean,  whose  fault  was  it  ? 
Had  he  not,  in  virtue  of  his  marked  talents  and  abilities,  a 
better  right  to  wealth  and  fame  than  most  men  ? — and  was 
he  to  blame  for  the  fatality  which  always  placed  some  other 
life  or  heart  between  them  and  him  ?     Had  he  not  done  his 
best  to  escape  from  it?     Had  he  not  tried  more  legitimate 
means  to  gain  them,  and  failed  ? 

If  the  doctor  had  been  less  intent  upon  special  pleading, 


FATALITY    OK    TEMPTATION?  4G9 

lie  might  have  reminded  himself  that  the  records  of  crime 
show  that  a  man  seldom  stops  with  the  commission  of  a 
single  theft,  forgery,  murder,  or  other  offence.  The  first 
one  being  the  necessary  sequence  of  an  evil  habit  of  living 
or  thinking,  a  second  and  a  third  follow  as  unavoidably  as  a 
strict  logical  inference  from  admitted  premises.  Might  not 
the  fatality  of  which  he  complained  be  but  the  inevitable 
result  of  indulging  a  certain  kind  of  thought  until  it  be 
came  a  settled  habit  of  mind,  sure  to  manifest  itself,  on 
occasion,  in  appropriate  action  ?  Had  not  this  fatality  first 
presented  itself  to  him  as  a  temptation,  suggesting  a  swift 
means  to  a  desired  end? — nay,  was  it  not  such  still,  only 
treading  more  confidently  a  familiar  track,  and  finding  a 
readier  reception  ? 

He  had  no  time  to  answer  these  queries,  if  it  had  occurred 
to  him  to  ask  them; — he  was  already  at  his  destination. 
With  a  mighty  effort  of  his  will,  he  tore  himself  free  of  his 
anxieties  and  doubts,  and  bent  his  mind  steadily  upon  the 
surgical  operation  which  he  had  come  to  perform ;  and  he 
performed  it  well,  with  a  clear  eye  and  a  steady  hand.  He 
then  went  on  to  his  office,  where  he  found  Bergan's  sum 
mons  to  the  death-bed  waiting  for  him ;  in  apparent  obedi 
ence  to  which,  he  soon  after  presented  himself  at  the  Hall. 

In  the  avenue,  he  met  Doctor  Gerrish,  who,  having  lost 
all  patience  at  Bei'gan's  unaccountable  tai'dincss,  had  finally 
started  for  home.  He  instantly  turned  back  with  Doctor 
Remy,  and  waited  silently,  with  an  air  of  deep  gravity, 
while  the  latter  made  a  brief  examination  of  the  corpse. 
At  first  sight  of  it,  he  gave  a  little  start;/  and  when  he  had 
finished  his  inspection,  lie  stood  silent  and  thoughtful, 
lie  had  sneeringly  committed  a  certain  powder,  he  remem 
bered,  to  the  disposal  of  "Providence;"  it  struck  him  as  a 
little  odd  that  it  should  have  been  kept  so  long,  and  finally 
used  only  to  put  a  merciful  end  to  intense  bodily  and  mental 
torture.  Was  there  really  a  Power  overruling  the  acts  of 
men,  whether  good  or  evil,  to  His  own  purposes  ? 


4:70  1IOM)EN    WITH    THE   CORDS. 

"  Well ! "  said  Doctor  Gerrish,  growing  tired  of  the 
prolonged  silence,  "  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

Doctor  Rcmy  raised  his  eyes,  and  met  the  meaning 
glance  of  his  colleague.  "  You  suspect — "  he  began  slowly, 
and  then  paused,  as  if  not  quite  willing  to  put  his  thought 
into  words. 

"  Poison,"  returned  Doctor  Gerrish,  promptly.  "  Xot  a 
doubt  of  it.  The  question  is,  where  did  ho  get  it — who 
gave  it  to  him?  Is  it  accident,  or  suicide,  or  murder? 
What  arc  we  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

Doctor  Rcmy  looked  down  thoughtfully.  He  was  at  a 
loss  how  to  treat  this  new  complication.  He  had  not  ex 
pected  it ;  he  knew  not  how  best  to  weave  it  into  the  intri 
cate  web  of  his  plans;  he  wanted  time  to  consider  whether 
it  could  be  turned  to  advantage. 

"  Your  last  question  is  the  only  one  that  I  can  answer," 
he  said,  at  length, — "let  us  wait.  There  arc  many  things 
to  be  considered.  In  the  first  place  the  poison  only  has 
tened  the  death  that  was  certain  to  come  soon,  anyway." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so.  When  I  left  the  Major  last  night,  I 
knew  that  he  must  be  a  dead  man  by  morning.  lie  had 
taken  no  poison  then, — except  the  slow  one  that  he  has  been 
taking  for  years." 

" Nevertheless,"  persisted  Doctor  Gei-rish,  "it  was  not 
that  poison  which  killed  him." 

"  I  suppose  there  was  no  one  present,  when  he  died,  ex 
cept  the  servants,"  remarked  Doctor  Remy. 

"  And  Mr.  Arling,"  answered  Doctor  Gerrish. 

Doctor  Remy  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "That  looks  bad," 
said  he,  gravely.  "  He  is  the  heir,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  that  it  looks  bad  for  Mr.  Arling,"  re 
turned  Doctor  Gerrish,  "  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  It  Avas 
he  who  sent  for  me ;  and  he  promised  to  meet  me  here  soon." 

"Why  is  he  not  here,  then?"  asked  Doctor  Remy, 
pointedly. 


FATALITY    Oil    TEMPTATION  ?  4:71 

"  I  cannot  tell.  He  must  have  been  unexpectedly  de 
tained." 

Doctor  Remy  closed  his  lips  like  a  man  who  forbears  to 
argue,  but  is  not  convinced. 

Doctor  Gerrish  went  to  the  door  and  called  Rue, 
who  had  been  desired  to  wait  outside  during  the  examina 
tion. 

"  Did  you  notice  anything  unusual  about  your  master's 
death  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"I  thought  he  died  very  sudden  like,"  answered  Rue; 
"and  so  I  think  did  Mr.  Arling,  for  he  immediately  said 
that  Doctor  Remy,  or  some  one  else,  must  be  sent  for,  and 
gave  very  particular  directions  that  the  body  should  not  be 
disturbed  before  he  arrived." 

Doctor  Gerrish  shot  a  triumphant  glance  at  Doctor 
Remy,  who  only  smiled,  shook  his  head,  and  interrogated 
Rue,  in  his  turn. 

"  What  did  your  master  take  last  ?  " 

"A  powder.     He  insisted  upon  having  it." 

"Where  is  the  glass  from  which  he  took  it?" 

"  Here,  sir ;  but  it  lias  been  washed." 

So  it  had,  and  so  carefully  that  there  was  nothing  to 
show  what  its  contents  had  been.  It  also  appeared  that  the 
paper  in  whicli  the  powder  had  been  folded,  had  been  used 
to  light  a  candle,  and  was  burned  to  ashes. 

Doctor  Gerrish  took  up  the  examination : — "  Arc  there 
any  more  powders  like  it  ?  " 

"  One,  sir ; — here  it  is.  I  think  master  said  he  had  them 
from  Doctor  Remy." 

Doctor  Remy  bent  his  head  in  assent,  thankful  that  no 
vestige  of  the  fatal  powder  was  left,  to  make  the  admission 
dangerous.  The  remaining  one,  being  examined,  was  proved 
to  be  innocuous.  Doctor  Gerrish  looked  puzzled. 

'  "  You  see,"  said  Doctor  Remy,  "  that  it  comes  back  to 
what  I  said  first, — we  must  wait.  That  is,  until  we  can 
consult  with  the  dead  man's  brother  and  nephew.  At 


472  IIOLDKN    WITH    THE   COEDS. 

what  hour  this  afternoon  will  it  be  convenient  for  you  to 
meet  them,  and  me,  here  ?  " 

"  At  any  hour  you  please." 

"  Say  three  o'clock,  then.  I  will  answer  for  Mr.  Ber- 
gan's  appearance.  Of  course,  Mr.  Arling  will  be  back — it' 
ever — long  before  that  time." 

From  the  Hall,  Doctor  Remy  hastened  to  Oakstead. 
There  was  an  unusual  quietude  about  the  place,  and  he  was 
met  at  the  door  by  Mrs.  Bergan,  with  her  finger  on  her 
lips,  and  the  low-spoken  information  that,  after  an  exces 
sively  restless  night,  causing  them  all  a  good  deal  of  trouble 
and  uneasiness,  Carice  had  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep,  and  must 
not  be  disturbed.  Would  he  be  good  enough  to  step  noise 
lessly  into  the  parlor,  and  speak  low  ? 

She  did  her  best  not  to  seem  less  cordial  than  usual ; 
nevertheless,  it  did  not  escape  the  doctor's  lynx-eyed  obser 
vation  that  her  tone  and  manner  were  forced.  lie  pondered 
briefly  within  himself  what  this  might  mean ;  but  finally 
set  it  down  to  motherly  anxiety  for  Carice,  and  a  conse 
quent  desire  to  get  rid  of  him  as  quickly  and  quietly  as 
possible.  He  was  willing  to  gratify  the  wish  ;  he  had  too 
much  upon  his  mind  and  hands,  just  now,  to  bestow  much 
thought  or  time  upon  Carice.  He  could  safely  leave  her 
case  to  run  its  own  course  until  after  she  had  been  declared 
the  owner  of  Bergan  Hall ;  then  it  would  be  for  his  inter 
est  to  hasten  her  return  to  reason,  since  it  was  to  her 
reason  only — her  strict  notions  of  right,  and  her  devotion 
to  duty — that  he  must  look  for  an  acknowledgment  of  his 
claims  as  a  husband,  his  right  to  control  herself  and  her 
property.  He  did  not  flatter  himself  that  he  had  any 
strong  hold  upon  her  affections.  • 

"  Certainly,  she  must  not  be  disturbed,"  he  replied  to 
Mrs.  Bergan,  after  a  brief  pause.  "Sleep,  in  her  condition, 
poor  child  !  is  the  best  of  restoratives ;  it  also  shows  a 
decided  change  for  the  better.  My  present  business  is 
with  her  father ;  is  he  in  ?  " 


FATALITY    OK   TEMPTATION?  473 

"  No ;  he  went  out  a  short  lime  since.     He  may  be  in 
the  grounds,  or  he  may  have  gone  to  the  Hall." 
"  Then  he  has  heard  of  his  brother's  death  ?  " 
"Yes,  the  news  came  early  this  morning." 
"  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  stop,  then.     Please  say 
to  him  that  I  have  engaged  that  he  shall  meet  Doctor  Ger- 
rish,  Mr.  Arling,  and  myself,  at  the  Hall  this  afternoon,  at 
three  o'clock,  for  an  important  consultation ;  I  beg  that  he 
will  not  fail  us.     Good   morning.     Let  me  know  if   any 
change  takes  place  in  Carice ;  for  I  am  likely  to  be  so  very 
busy  for  a  day  or  two,  that  I  may  not  present  myself  unless 
sent  for.     I  was  not  in  bed  at  all  last  night,  and  pi'obably 
shall  not  be  to-night.     A  physician's  life  is  a  slavish  one." 
"  Yet  you  like  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Bergan,  feeling  that  she 
must  say  something. 

"  Not  the  general  practice ;  I  like  the  science.     Good 
morning,  again." 


IV. 


BLIND. 

MR.  BERGAN",  meanwhile,  had  gone  over  to  the  Hull, 
partly  to  give  a  regretful  look  at  his  brother's  dead 
face,  and  partly  to  have  some  further  talk  with 
Bergan.  Thick-growing  memories  beset  him,  at  every  step 
of  the  way;  and,  the  goal  being  reached,  he  had  ample 
opportunity  to  reflect  upon  the  sin  and  folly  of  family 
feuds,  the  miserably  thin  barriers  which  suffice  to  keep 
apart  those  who  ought  to  be  one  in  affection  and  interest, 
as  in  blood.  He  had  not  been  very  much  to  blame  for  their 
erection  between  him  and  his  brother,  but  he  regretted 
none  the  less  that  he  had  not  wrought  more  perseveringly 
and  lovingly  to  break  them  down.  There  had  always  been 
a  generous  side  to  Harry's  character,  which  might  have 
been  successfully  appealed  to,  at  least  in  the  earlier  stages 
of  the  quarrel;  his  own  influence  might  have  been  exerted 
for  good ;  the  dreary,  empty  Hall  might  still  have  been 
a  pleasant  home ;  this  lonely  death-couch  might  have  been 
sweetened  by  the  tender  touch  and  tears  of  kindred  hands 
and  hearts,  and  sanctified  by  the  gentle  benedictions  of 
religion.  It  all  might  have  been — it  could  never  be  now  ! 
Death  had  closed  every  door  to  reconciliation  and  amend 
ment,  and  written  over  each  the  mournful  legend,  "Too 
Late ! " 

He  turned  from  the  corpse  to  ask  for  Bergan,  and  was 
surprised  to  learn  that  nothing  was  known  of  him  at  the 
Hall  since  he  had  retired  to  his  room  just  before  day-break, 
further  than  that  Doctor  Gerrish  had  mentioned  meeting 
him  at  Oakstead.  However,  being  informed  that  two  men 


BLIND.  475 

had  inquired  for  him,  and  been  sent  to  meet  him,  he  took  it 
for  granted  that  some  unexpected  emergency  had  com 
pelled  him  to  hasten  back  to  Savalla,  at  a  moment's  notice ; 
he  would  be  sure  to  return  by  afternoon,  or  send  some 
explanation  of  his  absence. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Bergan  was  forced  to  fill  the  gap  created 
by  his  departure ;  indeed,  until  his  brother's  will  should  be 
made  known,  he  was  both  his  natural  and  legal  representa 
tive,  lie  appointed  the  time,  and  decided  the  manner,  of 
the  funeral ;  he  sent  for  a  lawyer,  and  had  seals  affixed  to 
all  drawers  and  boxes  likely  to  contain  papers  of  value ;  he 
gave  orders  for  the  lower  rooms  to  be  cleaned  and  fitted, 
as  far  as  might  be,  for  the  lying  in  state,  and  the  reception 
of  guests ; — in  short,  he  was  kept  busy  until  long  past 
noon,  when  he  was  fain  to  go  home  for  rest  and  refresh 
ment,  as  well  as  to  satisfy  himself  of  the  state  of  Carice. 
She  was  still  sleeping  peacefully,  and  there  was  no  cause 
for  alarm. 

Returning  to  the  Hall,  at  a  few  minutes  past  three,  he 
found  the  two  physicians  waiting  in  the  library,  but  no  sign 
or  tidings  of  Bergan. 

"Where  can  my  nephew  be?:'  he  exclaimed  in  perplex 
ity  and  even  displeasure. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  strange,"  replied  Doctor  Gerrish, 
gravely. 

Doctor  Remy  said  nothing ;  but  he  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders  in  a  manner  sufficiently  expressive  of  disapprobation. 

Yet  he  would  have  been  glad  to  be  able  to  answer  the 
question, — at  least  to  himself.  lie  was  completely  in  the 
dark  as  to  how  Big  Ben  and  his  confederate  had  prospered 
in  their  evil  undertaking.  He  knew  that  Bergan  had  not 
been  found  in  his  room,  as  was  expected  ;  but  why  he  had 
gone  forth  so  early,  and  whether  he  had  encountered  the 
ruffians,  was  altogether  a  mystery.  All  day,  he  had  been 
holding  himself  ready  for  whatever  might  come, — Bergan's 
sudden  appearance  in  the  flesh,  or, the  bringing  in  of  his 


476  IIOLDEN    WITH    TIIE   CORDS. 

dead  body,  or  a  summons  to  go  and  afford  him  medical  aid ; 
— he  did  not  mean  to  bo  taken  off  his  guard,  in  any  case. 
But  the  suspense  was  trying.  It  had  not  been  contem 
plated  in  his  original  plan ;  it  kept  his  mind  and  nerves 
continually  on  the  stretch ;  it  gave  him  an  uncomfortable 
feeling  that  other  hands  than  his  own  were  busy  with  the 
dark  threads  of  his  schemes,  weaving  them  into  patterns 
that  he  had  not  designed.  He  longed  to  know  precisely 
what  he  had  to  hope  or  to  dread. 

Still,  every  moment  of  Bergan's  absence  was  reasonable 
ground  for  belief  that  Big  Ben  had  not  only  carried  out 
his  purpose  of  revenge  to  the  full,  but  had  succeeded  won 
derfully  well  in  obliterating  all  trace  of  his  work.  So 
much  the  better.  Bergan  once  removed  from  his  path,  it 
would  become  tolerably  smooth  and  direct. 

"  I  suppose  that  we  shall  have  to  proceed  to  business 
without  my  nephew,  since  he  is  not  come,i5  said  Mr.  Ber 
gan,  after  a  prolonged  pause.  "  May  I  ask  what  is  the 
object  of  this  meeting  ?  " 

The  answer  to  this  question,  although  very  gently  given 
by  Doctor  Gerrish,  was,  of  course,  a  severe  shock ;  all  the 
more,  because  Doctor  Remy  took  care  to  throw  in  a  covert 
insinuation  that  Bergan's  absence  betrayed  some  guilty 
connection  with  the  disastrous  event ;  bethinking  himself 
that,  in  case  the  young  man  should  escape  Big  Ben,  he 
could  be  gotten  rid  of  all  the  same,  for  the  present,  by 
being  arrested  for  murder. 

Doctor  Gerrish,  however,  repelled  the  insinuation,  as  he 
had  done  before.  "  To  my  mind,"  said  he,  "  everything 
points  to  the  opposite  conclusion.  If  Mr.  Arling  had  any 
thing  to  gain  by  poisoning  his  uncle,  he  must  have  gained 
it  by  staying  here,  and  not  by  flight.  Besides,  he  is  too 
intelligent  a  man  not  to  know  that  such  flight  would,  in 
itself,  arouse  suspicion,  and  imply  guilt.  Having  given 
the  matter  a  good  deal  of  thought,  since  morning,  1  have 
decided  that  the  poisoning  must  have  been  accidental. 


BLIND.  477 

However,  we  will,  with  your  permission,  call  in  that  old 
'  JMaumer'  and  examine  her  a  little  more  minutely  than  we 
did  before.  I  have  thought  of  several  questions  that  it 
would  be  well  to  ask." 

Rue  was  accordingly  summoned  from  her  faithful  watch 
over  her  dead  master.  She  declared  positively  that  she 
had  been  with  him  from  an  early  stage  of  his  attack,  until 
his  death ;  and  that  he  had  taken  only  the  medicines  and 
food  ordered  by  Doctor  Ilemy,  except  the  untimely  drink 
of  brandy,  and  the  afore-mentioned  powder.  He  had  swal 
lowed  nothing  whatever  after  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Arling, — 
not  even  the  brandy  for  which  *he  had  called  with  almost 
his  last  breath. 

"That  certainly  clears  Mr.  Arling,"  remarked  Doctor 
Gerrish,  in  a  low  voice. 

"H'm — perhaps  so,"  rejoined  Doctor  Remy,  medita 
tively.  "Still,  it  is  evidence  not  worth  a  rush,  you  know, 
in  a  court  of  law." 

"It  is  evidence  perfectly  satisfactory  to  me,  neverthe 
less,"  interposed  Mr.  Bergan,  firmly,  "  and  may  be  so  to 
you.  I,  as  having  known  Maumer  Rue  from  my  infancy, 
can  vouch  for  her  trustworthiness.  Her  testimony  is  as 
good  as  mine,  or  yours." 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  know  best,"  returned  Doctor 
Rcmy,  carelessly.  "  Still,  the  woman  is  old  and  blind,  and 
cannot  be  expected  to  know  all  that  goes  on  in  her  pres 
ence.  Major  Bergan  might  have  swallowed  half-a-dozen 
things  without  her  knowledge." 

Rue  had  fallen  into  the  back-ground,  during  this  discus 
sion  ;  but  she  now  stepped  forward  and  faced  Doctor  Remy, 
drawing  herself  up,  and  smiling  scornfully. 

"Blind,  am  I?"  she  asked;  "I  am  not  so  blind  as 
those  who  have  eyes,  Doctor  Remy.  No  one  saw  you  open 
my  master's  private  draAver  last  evening,  during  his  worst 
paroxysm,  but  I  heard  you  open  and  shut  it,  distinctly,  and 
the  rustling  of  papers,  too." 


478  HOLDEN    WITH   THE   CORDS. 

If  Doctor  Remy  was  both  surprised  and  startled,  he 
concealed  it  well,  thanks  to  the  guard  that  he  was  keeping 
over  himself.  He  merely  looked  at  his  companions,  and 
said,  disdainfully ;  "  Of  course,  such  a  charge,  from  such  a 
source,  is  too  ridiculous  to  be  contradicted.  The  poor  old 
woman  has  mistaken  one  sound  for  another;  that  is  all." 

"  It  is  people  who  live  by  sight  that  mistake  sounds, 
Doctor  Remy,"  returned  Rue,  composedly  ;  "  a  woman,  who 
has  lived  by  hearing  ior  over  sixty  years,  does  not.  Let 
me  give  you  a  proot  of  it.  These  gentlemen  listen  to  your 
voice,  as  I  do,  and  they  do  not  hear  anything  unusual  in 
it, — nothing  more  than  the  seriousness,  or  the  coldness,  or 
the  scorn,* that  fits  the  words;  but  I  hear  in  it  anxiety  and 
perplexity  and  suspense  and  fear.  Since  Mr.  Arling  has 
been  missing,  I  have  suspected  that  you  could  tell  us  what 
had  become  of  him,  if  you  would.  But  while  you  have 
been  talking  about  him  here,  my  ears  have  been  watching 
your  voice,  your  steps,  your  very  breath ;  and  I  know  now 
that  you  do  not  know  where  he  is  any  more  than  we  do.  You 
are  puzzled  because  he  does  not  come ;  you  are  continually 
expecting — I  will  not  say,  dreading — to  see  him,  or  hear  of 
him.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  And  if  it  is,"  answered  Doctor  Remy,  coolly,  "  what 
is  there  strange  about  it  ?  Why  should  I  not  be  puzzled 
at  his  unaccountable  disappearance,  and  anxious  for  his 
speedy  return? " 

"  Anxious  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  a  low  laugh ;  "  yes,  you 
are  anxious ;  but  it  will  avail  you  nothing.  Go  your  way, 
rummage  drawers  and  cupboards,  you  will  not  find  what 
you  seek;  plot  and  sin,  you  will  not  get  what  you  covet. 
Blinder  of  understanding  than  I  am  of  eyes,  you  dig,  and 
know  not  that  it  is  a  pit  for  your  own  feet ;  you  plant  and 
water,  and  never  remember  that  the  expectations  of  the 
wicked  shall  be  cut  off.  Master  Bergan  will  come  back, 
and  have  his  own,  in  spite  of  you ! " 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  responded  Doctor  Remy, 


BLIND,  479 

with  mock  earnestness.  Then  he  turned  to  his  companions. 
"  Her  master's  death  has  set  her  wits  to  wool-gathering," 
said  he.  "  Have  we  any  more  time  to  listen  to  her  maun- 
derings  ?  " 

Rue  opened  her  lips  for  a  rejoinder,  but  Mr.  Bergan, 
thinking  that  the  scene  had  lasted  long  enough,  though  he 
had  not  been  unimpressed  by  it,  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
Instantly  acknowledging  his  authority,  as  one  of  the  family, 
she  bent  her  head,  and  retired  without  a  word. 

Doctor  Gerrish  took  out  his  watch.  "  I  shall  soon  have 
to  leave,"  said  he.  "  Mr.  Bergan,  what  is  to  be  done  about 
this  business?  I  suppose  it  is  our  duty  to  report  it  to  the 
authorities." 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  be  guided  by  my  wishes,"  Mr. 
Bergan  replied,  after  some  consideration,  "you  will  say 
nothing  at  present.  I  have  no  disposition  to  conceal  a 
murder,  if  one  has  been  committed ;  but,  as  you  have  well 
remarked,  all  the  circumstances  indicate  that  the  poison 
was  taken  or  administered  accidentally.  Nevertheless, 
there  is  room  for  evil  minded  persons  to  set  afloat  injurious 
reports  concerning  my  nephew,  while  he  is  absent,  and 
unable  to  defend  himself;  or  these  faithful  servants  of  my 
brother,  who,  I  am  convinced,  would  not  have  poisoned 
him  any  sooner  than  I  would,  may  be  subjected  to  a  deal 
of  cruelty,  from  the  fact  that  he  was  alone  with  them,  much 
of  the  time,  and  their  evidence,  as  Doctor  Remy  has 
reminded  us,  is  worth  nothing  in  law.  Let  the  funeral  go 
on,  without  hindrance ;  the  body  will  be  laid  in  the  family 
vault,  where  it  can  be  examined,  and  the  presence  of  poison 
proved,  at  any  time,  if  it  becomes  necessary.  And  it  just 
occurs  to  me,  as  a  possible  explanation  of  my  nephew's 
absence,  that  he  may  have  gotten  hold  of  some  clue  to  this 
affair,  and  be  following  it  up  before  it  has  time  to  cool. 
Let  us  wait  until  he  appears,  before  we  make  any  stir  that 
may  only  thwart  his  efforts." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Doctor  Gerrish.     "  My  own  pi'efer- 


480  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

cnce  is  always  for  an  open,  straightforward  course ;  but  if 
you  think  this  one  more  expedient,  under  the  circumstances, 
and  will  take  the  responsibility  of  it,  I  will  not  interfere. 
Good  day." 


V. 

MORE    MYSTERY. 

r  I  1HE  funeral  was  over.  Major  Bcrgan,  with  due  pomp 
1  and  circumstance  of  woe,  had  been  laid  in  the  tomb  of 
his  forefathers,  and  left  to  mingle  his  ashes  with 
theirs.  Of  all  his  possessions,  he  retained  for  his  own 
behoof  simply  a  shroud  and  a  coffin.  No  good  work  of 
Church  or  State  would  miss  his  helping  hand.  He  left  no 
real,  aching  vacancy  in  any  human  heart.  His  imposing 
funeral  train  scattered  to  houses,  places  of  business,  and 
street  corners,  some  to  forget  the  event  at  once,  in  the 
absorbing  interest  of  their  own  affairs;  some  to  talk  it 
over,  and  then — forget  it  all  the  same.  Two  or  three 
remote  cousins,  sniffing  the  air  for  legacies,  went  back  to 
the  Hall,  to  wait  for  the  reading  of  the  will,  and,  mean 
while,  to  finish  the  funeral  baked  meats.  Mr.  Bergan  had 
bidden  them  make  themselves  at  home,  and  excused  him 
self  from  accompanying  them :  being  greatly  fatigued  with 
the  manifold  duties  and  emotions  of  the  day,  he  was  fain  to 
spend  the  intervening  time  quietly  at  Oakstead. 

He  found  Carice  on  the  piazza ;  she  had  been  wheeled 
out  in  an  easy  chair,  to  enjoy  the  beneficent  air  and  sun 
shine.  She  was  pale  and  feeble,  but  the  light  of  restored 
reason  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  gave  animation  and  intelli 
gence  to  their  expression.  Also — light  being  the  mother 
of  shadow — it  imparted  to  them  a  deep  seriousness.  She 
had  taken  up  the  problem  of  life  precisely  where  it  had 
dropped  with  her  into  the  river,  on  the  night  of  her  wed 
ding, — unconscious,  as  yet,  of  the  length  of  the  blank 
between, — and  addressed  herself  to  its  solution  witli  a 
21 


482  HOLDEN  WITH  THE  CORDS. 

clearer  brain  and  a  firmer  courage.  She  reflected  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world  and  the  estimation  of  the  law,  she 
was  Doctor  Remy's  wife.  She  had  publicly  entered  into 
that  relation,  without  denial  or  protest ;  solemnly  taking 
him  as  her  husband,  for  better  for  worse,  till  death  them 
should  part.  Did  the  fact  that  he  had  been  accused  of  a 
terrible  crime,  absolve  her  from  this  vow  ?  Did  it  not 
rather  make  it  more  imperatively  her  duty  to  stand  by 
him ;  to  help  him  with  her  countenance  and  sympathy,  if 
he  were  innocent ;  to  influence  him  to  repentance  and  con 
fession,  if  he  were  guilty  ?  Was  she  to  think  only  of  her 
happiness,  not  at  all  of  his  good?  Had  he  not  a  soul  that 
might  still  be  saved,  as  God  had  saved  the  world,  by  love  ? 
Hard  questions  these, — demanding  for  their  considera 
tion  a  clear  head,  and  a  heart  at  once  tender  and  strong. 
Carice,  being  now  fully  herself,  had  both ;  yet  she  might 
well  delay  coming  to  a  decision  so  momentous.  She  was 
glad  when  her  father's  arrival  broke  the  thread  of  her 
meditations ;  albeit,  it  was  only  to  give  her  a  fresh  subject 
of  anxiety.  He  looked  so  strangely  old  and  worn, — it 
struck  her  with  new  wonder,  new  alarm,  at  every  sight  of 
him  !  How  was  it  possible  for  him  to  change  so  much  in 
the  two  or  three  days  that  she  believed  her  unconsciousness 
to  have  lasted,  even  though  weighed  down  by  the  anxiety 
consequent  upon  his  interview  with  Bergan  ? — an  interview 
which  could  not  have  been  without  definite  result,  since 
she  saw  nothing  of  Doctor  Remy.  Indeed,  his  name  had 
been  mentioned  to  her  but  once,  and  then  in  terms  of  mani 
fest  constraint,  though  of  apparent  excuse  for  his  absence. 
No  doubt  her  father  had  taken  the  thought  of  his  possible 
guilt  very  sorely  to  heart ;  no  doubt,  too,  he  blamed  him 
self  severely  for  his  advocacy  of  the  maiTiage.  She  must 
not  let  him  do  that !  She  knew  so  well  that  he  had  meant 
it  for  the  best, — that  he  had  erred  in  judgment  only,  never 
in  intention, — that  pure,  strong,  unselfish  love  for  her  had 
been  the  deep  motive  of  his  every  act.  Her  heart  was 


MORE   MYSTERY.  483 

very  tendci*,  very  pitiful,  toward  him  as  he  came  up  the 
gravel-walk,  with  that  slow,  stoowng  gait,  and  those  sud 
den  gray  hairs,  which  made  her  feel,  every  time  that  she 
saw  him,  as  if  she  must  have  been  dreaming  for  yeai-s,  or 
was  dreaming  now. 

He  brightened  visibly  at  sight  of  her.  He  was  thank 
ful,  with  all  his  heart,  for  her  restoration,  even  though  it 
but  served  to  increase  his  perplexities.  For  how  was  she 
to  be  given  to  understand,  without  a  harmful  shock,  that  a 
year  of  her  life  had  passed  her  by,  and  made  no  sign  ? 
With  what  face  could  he  break  it  to  her  that  the  man 
whom  he  had  urged  upon  her  as  a  husband,  was  likely  to 
prove  a  murderer?  What  answer  was  he  to  make  when 
she  inquired  after  Bergan,  as  he  was  constantly  expecting 
her  to  do  ? 

Needless  anxieties,  all,  as  he  would  duly  discover. 
Carice  was  already  feeling  her  way  to  the  truth,  as  regarded 
the  lapse  of  time,  by  means  of  the  incomprehensible  changes 
that  she  saw  about  her ;  it  would  not  so  much  shock  her  as 
satisfy  her  with  a  reasonable  explanation  of  them.  The 
accusation  against  Doctor  Ilemy  would  be  no  surprise  to 
her ;  on  the  contrary,  its  dai'k  shadow  continually  fell 
athwart  her  mind,  and  prompted  or  modified  all  her 
thoughts.  Moreover,  as  long  as  her  duty  to  Doctor  Remy 
was  in  question,  she  conscientiously  checked  every  thought, 
every  wish,  every  emotion  of  curiosity  even,  that  wandered 
toward  Bergan.  Knowing  nothing  of  all  this,  however, 
and  fearing  lest  she  should  seize  upon  this  opportunity 
to  ask  for  the  full  explanation  that  he  was  so  loath  to  make, 
Mr.  Bergan  began  a  lengthened  account  of  the  funeral 
ceremonies.  He  had  deemed  it  wise  to  tell  her  of  her 
uncle's  death,  both  as  affording  a  good  excuse  for  postpon 
ing  other  matters,  and  as  a  i-eason  for  his  own  troubled  and 

~  ' 

abstracted  face. 

He  was  still  busy  with  this  theme,  doing  his  best  to 
imitate  the  gold-beater's  art  of  making  a  little  material 


484  JOLDEN   WITH    THE    CORDS. 

cover  a  large  space,  when  he  heard  a  footfall  behind  him, 
on  the  gravel  walk.  Looking  quickly  round,  he  was  de 
lighted  to  behold  his  nephew  coming  up  the  steps,  just  as 
he  had  first  seen  him  two  years  before,  with  the  same  half- 
eager,  half-hesitating  expression  of  one  who  feels  himself 
at  once  a  relative  and  a  stranger ;  yet  mingled  in  the  pres 
ent  instance,  with  what  seemed  an  inappropriate  sternness. 
The  sight  of  him  was  none  the  less  a  relief  to  his  uncle. 

"  Thank  Heaven !  you  are  come  at  last,  Bergan ! "  he 
exclaimed,  starting  up  to  go  and  meet  him. 

But  Carice  put  forth  a  staying  hand, — the  eyes  of  love 
are  not  so  easily  deceived.  "  You  mistake,  father,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  and  half-frightened  voice,  "  this  is  not  Bergan, 
though  he  is  like  him." 

The  new  comer  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  low.  "  No, 
I  am  not  Bergan ;  I  am  Hubert,"  he  said,  but  with  no 
friendliness  of  tone  or  manner.  "  And  you,  I  suppose,  are 
my  uncle  Godfrey.  I  am  come  to  look  for  my  brother. 
What  have  you  done  with  him  among  you  ?  Where  can  I 
find  that  villanous  Doctor  Remy,  who,  four  days  ago,  made 
one  attempt  on  his  life  (or  on  mine,  mistaking  me  for  him), 
and  has  now  probably —  " 

He  was  startled  and  silenced  by  a  low,  pathetic  cry  of 
distress,  that  found  an  instant  way  to  his  heart,  despite  its 
armor  of  prejudice  and  anger.  At  the  same  moment,  Ca 
rice  fell,  white  and  insensible,  across  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  You  have  killed  her,"  said  Mr.  1'ergan,  not  resentfully, 
but  with  the  still  resignation  of  a  man  who  feels  that  fate 
has  clone  its  worst  for  him,  and  there  is  little  left  to  dread, 
and  less  to  hope. 

"  Indeed,  I  trust  not,"  replied  Hubert,  earnestly,  dis 
mayed  at  the  mischief  that  he  had  done,  as  well  as  softened 
by  the  sweet,  death-like  face,  which,  he  now  knew,  was  not 
only  the  one  that  still  kept  its  place  in  Bergan's  memory, 
and  would  not  be  cast  out,  but  was  correlated  to  a  heart 
not  less  interested  than  his  own  in  Bergan's  fate.  "  I  think 


MORE    MYSTERY.  485 

she  has  only  fainted.  Let  me  take  her  in,  while  you  sum' 
mon  assistance." 

And  without  waiting  for  either  consent  or  remonstrance, 
he  lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms,  and  carried  her  to  the 
library.  Almost  immediately,  she  showed  signs  of  return 
ing  animation.  He  then  withdrew  to  the  piazza,  where  Mr. 
Bergan  shortly  joined  him  ;  and  explanations  were  mutually 
given  and  received. 

Hubert  had  duly  received  the  notice  of  his  uncle's 
funeral.  It  had  struck  him  as  a  little  odd  at  first,  that  it 
should  be  addressed  jointly  to  his  brother  and  himself ;  but 
lie  set  it  down  as  an  absurd  legal  formality,  and  thought  no 
moi-e  about  it.  He  had  intended  to  ride  over  this  morning, 
in  time  for  the  funeral ;  but  just  as  he  was  about  to  start, 
Mr.  Youle  had  slipped  and  fallen  on  the  office  steps,  and 
received  several  severe  cuts  and  bruises ;  which  had  made 
it  necessary  for  him  to  take  him  home,  and  do  what  he 
could  to  assist  him  and  reassure  his  family.  Thus  it  hap 
pened  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  Hall  to  find  the  funeral 
over,  and  to  learn,  to  his  surprise  and  alarm,  that  his  brother 
was  not  there,  and  that  nothing  was  known  of  his  where 
abouts,  except  that  he  was  last  seen  at  Oakstead.  There, 
also,  he  was  told  Doctor  Kemy  might  be  found.  Accord 
ingly  he  had  hastened  thither. 

He  now  proposed  to  commence  an  immediate,  thorough 
search  for  his  brother. 

"  Take  my  advice,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  "  and  wait  a  little 
longer.  I  have  had,  all  along,  an  expectation — or,  at  least, 
a  hope — that  my  brother's  will  would  give  some  clue  to  all 
these  mysteries.  The  time  fixed  for  the  reading  is  now  at 
hand.  Go  with  me,  and  be  present  thereat,  as  you  have  a 
right  to  be.  Then,  if  we  get  any  clue,  I  will  do  my  utmost 
to  help  you  follow  it  out ;  if  we  do  not,  I  shall  be  equally 
at  your  service  to  seek  for  one  elsewhere." 

Chafing  at  the  delay,  but  unable  to  suggest  anything 
better  to  be  done,  Hubert  accompanied  his  uncle  to  the 


430  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

Hall.  In  the  library  they  found  a  considerable  party  as 
sembled,  discussing  Bergan's  mysterious  disappearance. 

"I  hope,"  Doctor  Remy  was  just  saying,  -,vith  apparent 
concern,  "  that  nothing  worse  is  behind  it  all,  than  some 
foolish  whim  or  escapade" — when,  hearing  a  step  at  the 
door,  he  turned  and  met  Hubert  Arling's  stern,  threatening 
gaze.  In  spite  of  his  consummate  self-control,  he  could 
not  help  giving  a  violent  start.  Recollecting  himself  in 
stantly,  however, — inasmuch  as  he  had  just  heard  of  Hubert's 
previous  visit, — he  came  forward  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You  have  deceived  me  twice,  Mr.  Arling,"  he  said, 
pleasantly ;  "  your  resemblance  to  your  brother  is  really 
quite  wonderful,  and  must  lead  to  many  entertaining  mis 
takes.  I  have  to  beg  your  pardon,"  he  went  on,  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  for  my  absurd  conduct  at  our  former  meeting  ;  I 
will  explain  to  you,  by  and  by,  what  I  had  been  led,  by 
some  malicious  persons,  to  believe  that  I  might  expect  from 
your  brother  ;  which  indignity  I  hastily  attempted  to  fore 
stall.  I  have  since  learned  my  error,  and  I  now  beg  you  to 
believe  that  I  have  the  most  friendly  feelings  toward  you 
both.  I  am  scarcely  less  concerned  than  yourself  at  your 
brother's  absence,  on  this  occasion." 

Hubert  drew  back.  "  I  take  no  man's  hand  which*  I  have 
reason  to  believe  is  not  clean,"  said  he,  haughtily.  "  As  to 
your  relations  with  my  brother,  he  can  settle  them  with  you 
himself,  if  he  still  lives.  If  he  does  not,  I  warn  you  that  any 
man  whom  I  suspect  to  have  been  anywise  concerned  in  his 
death,  will  meet  with  little  mercy  at  my  hands." 

Doctor  Remy  turned  livid  with  anger.  Before  he  could 
reply,  Mr.  Tatum  (the  lawyer  whom  Mr.  Bergan  had  sum 
moned)  rapped  on  the  table  to  command  attention,  and 
held  up  the  will  to  view,  in  order  to  show  that  the  seals 
were  unbroken.  He  then  read  it,  slowly  and  distinctly. 
After  a  few  minor  legacies,  it  gave  the  bulk  of  the  Major's 
property  unconditionally  to  his  niece,  Caricc  Bergan. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  after  the  formal  voice  had  ceased. 


MORE    MYSTERY.  487 

"  Is  that  will  in  <luc  form  of  law  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bergan, 
breaking  the  pause. 

"  It  seems  so,"  replied  Mr.  Tatum  •  "  it  is  clearly  word 
ed,  and  duly  signed  and  witnessed." 

"  I  drew  it  up  myself,"  observed  Doctor  Remy,  "  as  you 
see.  It  was  over  a  year  ago,  before  the  legatee  became  my 
wife.  But  I  am  surprised  to  hear  it  read  on  this  occasion  ; 
I  supposed  that  it  grew  out  of  a  momentary  whim,  and  had 
long  ago  been  nullified  by  some  other  instrument." 

"I  am  equally  surprised,"  remarked  Mr.  Tatum,  "for 
the  excellent  reason  that  1  drew  up  a  very  different  will 
myself,  only  about  a  fortnight  since.  At  that  time,  Major 
Bergan  mentioned  this  one,  or  some  other, — for  the  pro 
visions  of  this  do  not  quite  answer  his  description, — and  I 
advised  him  to  destroy  it,  in  order  to  prevent  any  trouble." 

"  He  may  have  returned  to  his  first  mind,  and  destroyed 
the  second  will  instead,"  suggested  Doctor  Remy. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  returned  Mr.  Tatum.  "  Suppose 
we  go  in  a  body,  and  make  a  fresh  search.  Do  you  know, 
Mr.  Bergan,  any  other  receptacle  of  papers  than  those 
already  examined  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  Mr.  Bergan.  "  Perhaps  Maumev 
Rue  might ;  she  knows  the  house,  as  well  as  my  brother's 
habits,  much  better  than  I  do." 

Strange  to  say,  however,  when  Rue  was  sought  for, 
she  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  As  messenger  after  messen 
ger  returned  from  the  chambers,  the  quarter,  and  the 
grounds,  and  reported  that  no  trace  of  her  could  be  discov 
ered,  Doctor  Remy  and  Mr.  Bergan  looked  at  each  other  in 
blank  amazement.  This  new  disappearance  was  equally 
startling  and  suspicious  to  both ;  each  thought  that  the 
other  must  be  privy  to  it ;  each  wondered  what  it  portended. 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  to  search,"  finally  said  Mr. 
Tatum  ;  "  we  have  two  things  to  look  for, — the  will  and  tho 
old  woman." 

Hubert  Arling  rose.     "  I  must  beg  to  be  excused,"  said 


488  II OLDEN    WITH   THE    COEDS 

he.  "  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  search  for  any 
body,  or  anything,  except  my  brother." 

Mr.  Bergan  laid  his  hand  warningly  on  his  shoulder. 
"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  he,  "  that  you  cannot  begin  your 
search  better  than  in  this  house." 

The  search  began.  Not  a  corner  was  left  unexplored, 
not  a  shadow  left  undisturbed.  Many  strange  relics  of 
olden  time  were  unearthed,  much  venerable  dust  raised, 
but  it  was  all  unavailing,  so  far  as  either  the  will  or  the 
blind  woman  was  concerned. 

Tired  and  disappointed,  they  returned  to  the  library. 
Then  Doctor  Remy  stood  forth  with  the  light  of  triumph 
shining  in  his  eyes.  He  had  schemed  and  sinned  to  some 
purpose ;  his  reward  was  sure. 

"  I  suppose  that  nothing  remains,"  said  he,  "  but  for  me 
to  take  possession  of  the  premises,  in  the  name  of  my  wife." 

Mr.  Bergan  looked  inquiringly  at  Mr.  Tatum.  "  I  sup 
pose  that  is  the  proper  thing,"  said  the  lawyer, — "  at  least, 
as  long  as  the  other  will  is  not  found." 

Hubert's  long-repressed  impatience  here  broke  forth. 
"  Settle  this  matter  as  you  like,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going  to 
look  for  my  brother." 

He  strode  out  of  the  room.  Mr.  Bergan  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  followed  him.  At  the  door,  he  was  met 
by  a  servant  from  Oakstead,  who  delivered  a  message,  in 
a  low  tone  ;  of  which  Doctor  Remy,  who  was  standing 
near,  caught  the  words,  "  Richard  Causton — business  of 
importance."  Mr.  Bergan  listened  half-impatiently,  gave  a 
brief  answer,  and  hastened  after  Hubert. 

Doctor  Remy  watched  them  down  the  avenue,  with  a 
clouded  brow.  The  triumphant  light  had  gone  out  in  his 
eyes  ;  a  chill  premonition  of  evil  Avas  at  his  heart ;  already 
lie  seemed  to  feel  his  prize  slipping  from  his  hand.  "  Excuse 
me,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  to  those  who  remained,  "  I  have 
urgent  business  to  attend  to."  In  another  moment  he  was 
on  his  horse,  galloping  swiftly  across  the  fields. 


VI. 

HELP    AT    HAXD. 

DICK  CAUSTON'S  cottage— as  it  was  called  by  cour 
tesy,  being,  in  truth,  only  a  better  sort  of  cabin — 
stood  on  a  sandy  corner  of  the  estate  that  he  had 
formerly  owned.  At  first,  he  had  begged  to  remain  there 
only  until  he  could  fix  upon  some  more  eligible  place  of 
abode;  but  the  owner  was  good  natured,  and  Dick  was  in 
dolent  to  the  point  not  only  of  letting  well  enough  alone,  but 
bad  enough,  too ;  so  it  gradually  came  to  be  understood  that 
he  was  a  life-tenant,  by  sufferance,  of  the  place.  Nor  did 
the  owner  deem  it  worth  while  to  interfere,  when,  in  course 
of  time,  Dick  made  the  discovery  that  the  sand  composing 
this  small  domain  was  of  superior  quality,  and  proceeded 
to  convert  it  into  cash,  at  tho  rate  of  two  or  three  pennies 
a  load,  and  to  swallow  it  a  second  time,  in  the  shape  of 
alchohol.  The  process  ceased  only  when  the  digging 
threatened  to  undermine  the  cottage ;  which  was  thus  left 
high  and  dry  upon  a  triangular  sand  promontory,  with  a 
deep  excavation  on  each  side.  The  base  of  the  triangle — 
a  paut  of  it,  at  least — touched  the  boundary  line  of  Oak- 
stead,  very  near  the  point  where  Bergan  had  been  left  for 
dead  by  "  Big  Ben." 

Dick  had  risen  unusually  early  on  that  morning.  Ow 
ing  to  his  sudden  flight  from  the  Rat-Hole,  he  had  failed 
to  replenish  his  stock  of  brandy,  as  he  had  designed ;  and 
the  small  quantity  on  hand  had  been  insufficient  to  blunt 
the  thorns  in  his  pillow,  planted  partly  by  Doctor  Remy's 
threats,  and  partly  by  the  reproaches  of  his  own  conscience. 
He  had  tossed  about  on  their  sharp  points  for  the  better 
21* 


490  HOLUEN    WI'lII    THE    CORDS. 

part  of  the  night,  and  was  glad  when  dawn  brought  such 
a  measure  of  relief  as  was  to  be  derived  from  movement 
and  occupation.  In  the  absence  of  stronger  stimulant,  he 
was  fain  to  brace  his  nerves  with  a  cup  of  tea ;  to  Avhich 
end  a  fire  was  unfortunately  necessary,  and  fuel  must  be 
sought  in  the  adjoining  woods  of  Oakstead.  While  en 
gaged  in  this  task,  he  .caught  sight  of  a  prostrate  form, 
half-hidden  in  the  underbrush. 

"  Quien  busca,  hallard, — He  who  seeks  will  find,  but  he 
cannot  tell  what,"  he  muttered,  peevishly.  "  Is  the  fellow 
drunk,  or  only  asleep,  I  wonder  ?  " 

He  stole  some  paces  nearer,  then  gave  a  start  and 
stopped  ;  he  had  seen  blood  stains  on  the  man's  clothing. 
At  the  same  moment,  the  lines  of  the  figure  struck  him  as 
familiar,  and  while  he  strove  to  identify  them,  a  light 
breeze  lilted  the  leaves  of  an  overhanging  bush,  and  re 
vealed  an  easily  recognized  profile.  Immediately  he  was 
kneeling  by  Bergan,  trying  bis  best  to  discover  some  sign 
of  life. 

He  was  unsuccessful ;  yet,  thanks  to  his  store  of  pro 
verbs,  he  did  not  quite  despair.  "  No  barber  shaves  so 
close  that  another  cannot  find  work,"  he  said,  encourag 
ingly,  to  himself,  and  bent  all  his  energies  to  the  difficult 
task  of  dragging  Bergan  into  his  cabin.  He  dared  not 
wait  to  call  assistance,  none  being  within  easy  reach ;  be 
sides,  he  reasoned  that  the  transit,  if  not  too  ungently 
managed,  would  tend  to  restoration  rather  than,  otherwise. 
Moreover,  having  at  once  connected  Doctor  Remy  with 
Bergan's  condition,  and  being  thereby  inspired  with  an 
inordinate  dread  of  the  doctor's  power  to  harm,  he  fancied 
that  the  first  necessity  was  to  get  the  young  man  into  a 
place  of  concealment. 

"  A  good  heart  rids  work,"  he  murmured  exultingly, 
when,  panting  and  exhausted,  after  many  a  pause  for 
breath,  and  many  a  start  of  fright,  he  at  length  dragged 
Bergan  across  his  threshold,  and  closed  and  locked  the  door. 


HELP    AT    HAND.  491 

Tie  next  applied  himself,  with  good  will  and  not  un 
skilfully,  to  the  task  of  restoring  animation.  The  wound, 
it  appeared,  had  touched  no  vital  part — Big  Ben's  inten 
tion  having  been  Letter  than  his  aim — and,  being  helped 
by  the  position  in  which  Bergan  had  lain,  it  had  stanched 
itself.  The  blows  of  Ben's  heavy  fist  had  been  much  more 
effective.  Dick  wellnigh  gave  up  in  despair  before  his 
efforts  were  rewarded  by  the  faintest  sign  that  the  soul 
had  not  forever  quitted  its  earthly  house.  Taking  heart 
then,  he  worked  on  till  the  eyes  opened  and  the  lips 
moved,  but  not  with  intelligent  sight  or  coherent  speech. 
The  one  beheld  only  the  misty  phantoms,  as  the  other 
gave  utterance  but  to  the  wild  fancies,  of  a  fevered  and 
delirious  imagination.  Now,  his  uncle's  death-bed  was 
the  gloomy  subject  of  Bergan's  ravings ;  now,  he  beheld 
Carice  in  danger  or  disti-ess,  and  sought  to  hasten  to  her 
relief,  making  it  necessary  for  Dick  to  hold  him  in  bed  by 
main  strength. 

For  two  nights  and  three  days,  Dick  had  thus  been 
forced  to. keep  watch  over  him,  not  daring  to  leave  him  for 
a  moment,  lest  he  should  do  himself  irremediable  harm, 
durino-  his  absence.  Nor  was  he  disinclined  to  the  task. 

O 

Bergan  had  won  all  his  heai't  by  the  courtesy  and  consid 
eration  with  which  he  had  uniformly  treated  him,  no  less 
than  his  admiration  by  his  fearless,  upi'ight  character. 
"  Your  nephew  has  all  my  best  proverbs  in  his  life,  where 
as,  I  only  have  them  in  my  head,"  he  had  once  remarked 
to  the  Major,  by  way  of  lavishing  his  choicest  encomium 
upon  the  rejected  heir ;  and  he  now  did  his  best  for  the 
young  man's  comfort  and  cure,  with  the  somewhat  meagre 
appliances  at  his  command.  In  the  way  of  nourishment, 
the  cabin  afforded  only  a  little  tea  and  beef  broth ;  in  the 
way  of  medicine,  nothing  but  two  or  three  soothing  herb- 
drinks,  cold  water,  pure  air,  and  perfect  silence.  With  the 
three  last,  however,  nature  can  work  wonders ;  and,  in  this 
case,  she  wrought  so  effectively  that,  on  the  afternoon  of 


492  HOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS 

the  third  day,  Bergan  sank  into  a  quiet  sleep,  to  awake  in 
great  weakness,  but  fully  himself. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked,  feebly,  glancing  wondcr- 
ingly  around  him. 

"  Where  charity  begins — at  home,"  answered  Dick, 
graciously ;  "  that  is,  if  you  will  continue  to  make  your 
self  so,  as  you  have  been  doing  for  the  last  three  days." 

"  Three  days  !  "  exclaimed  Bergan,  trying  to  spring 
up,  but  failing  by  reason  of  his  weakness  ; — "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

Dick  saw  his  mistake,  but  it  was  too  late  to  retreat. 
Bergan's  mind  had  at  once  recurred  to  the  last  item  in  his 
memory, — namely,  Big  Ben's  uplifted  fist, — and  had  easily 
connected  it  with  his  present  condition.  Being  now  made 
aware  of  the  lapse  of  time  since  then  by  Dick's  incautious 
admission,  nothing  remained  but  to  give  truthful  answers 
to  the  questions  that  he  rapidly  put.  Quick  at  logical 
inference,  the  facts  that  he  had  disappeared  suddenly,  and 
that  no  trace  of  him  had  been  found,  were  soon  patent 
to  him.  He  was  filled  with  dismay.  What  distress  his 
mysterious  absence  must  have  cost  his  friends !  What 
evil  use  of  it  might  have  been  made  by  his  enemy ! 
At  the  thought,  he  made  another  attempt  to  rise,  and 
partially  succeeded,  but  only  to  fall  back  again,  half  faint 
ing- 

"  Take  care.      Quien  mas  corre,  menos  vuela, — the  more 

haste  the  worst  speed,"  said  Dick,  warningly.  "Stay  a 
little,  and  news  will  find  you." 

"  Not  until  it  is  too  late,  I  fear,"  returned  Bergan. 
"  Since  I  cannot  do  it  myself,  I  must  beg  you  to  go  imme 
diately  to  my  Uncle  Godfrey,  and  let  him  know  that  I  am 
here,  and  ask  him  to  come  and  see  me  at  once,  if  possible. 
Tell  him  privately,  so  as  not  to  startle  anybody  else,"  he 
added,  with  a  thought  of  Carice ;  "  and  leave  him  to  extend 
the  information  to  whomsoever  he  pleases." 

"I  would  much  rather  go  to  your  Uncle  Harry,"  ob- 


HELP   AT   HAOT).  493 

jected  Dick,  loath  to  present  himself  at  Oakstead,  lest  he 
should  encounter  Doctor  Remy. 

"  He  is  dead,"  answered  Bergan  gravely. 

Dick  looked  astonished,  but  muttered,  resignedly, — 
"  God  sends  no  more  than  can  be  borne."  Then  he  bowed 
low  to  Bergan.  " Dopo  un  papa,  se  ne  fa  un  altro"  said 
he, — "  The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King ;  I  congratu 
late  you." 

"Upon  what?"  asked  Bergan,  with  a  keen  glance; — 
"  Doctor  Remy's  succession  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Dick,  coloring  and  laughing. 
"  Doctor  Remy  will  find  out  that  Den  sviges  vcerst,  som 
sviger  sig  selv, — He  is  worse  cheated  who  cheats  himself. 
But,"  he  added,  with  a  quick  change  of  countenance,  "  he 
must  have  found  it  out  already." 

The  thought  was  a  startling  one.  Much  as  Dick  had 
enjoyed  the  certainty  of  the  doctor's  final  discomfiture,  he 
had  not  expected  that  it  would  come  so  soon ;  nor  had  he 
known,  as  now,  the  extent  of  the  doctor's  resources  in  the 
way  of  his  interest  or  his  vengeance.  As  he  pondered  the 
mattei',  ho  was  dismayed  to  recognize  in  the  false  will,  the 
Major's  death,  and  the  attempt  on  Bergan's  life,  apparent 
parts  of  the  same  plan,  and  to  infer  therefrom  the  subtle 
and  determined  character  of  the  man  whom  he  had  ven 
tured  to  try  to  outwit.  Had  he  succeeded  ?  If  so,  he  had 
everything  to  dread  from  the  doctor's  resentment ;  if  not — 
if  Doctor  Remy  had  found  means  to  carry  out  his  plans  to 
the  end,  and  cover  his  tracks,  as  he  seemed  to  have  done 
thus  far — would  he  dare  to  open  his  mouth  against  him, 
only  to  take  a  share  in  his  punishment?  Right  and  honor 
were  good  things,  but  could  they  make  a  prison  a  pleasant 
abode  ? 

Here,  Bergan  broke  in  upon  his  troubled  reflections.  "  I 
must  remind  you,"  said  he,  "  that  no  time  should  be  wasted. 
My  disappearance  must  have  caused  much  anxiety,  and  my 
uncle  should  be  informed  where  I  am,  without  delay." 


494  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Dick,  glad,  on  the  whole,  to  be 
relieved  from  further  consideration  of  his  difficulties.  "  I'll 
be  off  instauter,  if  you'll  promise  not  to  stir  while  I'm 
gone.  And  if  anybody  knocks,  don't  speak,  or  even 
breathe  loud  ; — likely  enough  it  will  be  Doctor  Remy,  and, 
in  your  case,  discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valor.  I'll 
make  all  fast  behind  me,  so  that  no  one  can  get  in.  And 
I'll  hurry  back,  and  bring  your  uncle  with  me,  if  I  can." 

At  Oakstead,  Dick  was  informed  that  Mr.  Bergan  was 
at  the  Hall,  and  wherefore.  He  dared  not  go  after  him, 
knowing  that  Doctor  Remy  would  certainly  be  there  also. 
He  debated  with  himself,  for  a  moment,  whether  it  would 
not  be  well  to  make  his  errand  known  to  Mrs.  Bergan ;  but 
murmuring  cynically,  "  A  woman  conceals  only  what  she 
don't  know,"  he  decided  to  entrust  her  with  a  message 
simply.  This  was  so  mysteriously  and  solemnly  given, 
however,  as  necessarily  to  suggest  to  her,  after  his  depar 
ture,  that  he  might  possibly  have  found  some  clue  to  the 
mystery  of  Bergan's  absence ;  whereupon  she  dispatched  a 
servant  to  the  Hall  with  the  message, — though  not  without 
a  strict  injunction  that  he  should  deliver  it  to  his  master 
privately.  But  this,  as  has  been  seen,  was  not  so  well 
observed  as  to  prevent  some  portion  of  the  message  from 
reaching  Doctor  Reiuy's  ears,  and  exciting  his  suspicions. 


VII. 

THE    SET   TIME. 

DICK  CAUSTON  trudged  back  to  his  cabin  in  no 
tranquil  frame  of  mind.  He  had  his  own  excellent 
reasons  for  believing  that  a  more  disappointed  and 
angry  man  than  Doctor  Remy,  at  that  moment,  was  not  to 
be  found  under  the  sun.  Not  only  had  he  lost  the  coveted 
Bcrgan  estate,  but  he  had  been  fooled  and  cheated  by  the 
very  man  whom  he  had  taken  to  be  his  most  willing  and 
despicable  tool.  Nor  would  it  be  long,  Dick  foresaw,  before 
the  doctor  would  seek  to  mitigate  the  bitterness  of  his  cha 
grin  with  whatever  sweetness  was  to  be  derived  from  the 
thought  and  purpose  of  revenge.  In  that  case,  lie  would 
be  the  first  point  of  attack.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to 
meddle  or  make  with  any  of  the  doctor's  affairs  !  As  if  he 
did  not  know  at  least  a  dozen  different  proverbs  in  as  many 
languages,  to  the  effect  that  prudence  was  better  than 
repentance,  safety  preferable  to  sorrow  !  Of  what  use  was 
it  to  have  his  head  stuffed  with  the  consummate  wisdom  of 
all  nations,  if  he  only  acted  like  a  consummate  idiot ! 

A  pertinent  question,  Richard  Causton  !  Showing  the 
good  results,  too,  of  your  period  of  forced  abstinence  from 
strong  drink,  and  your  lonely  watch  over  the  sick-bed — 
wellnigh  the  death-bed — of  Bergan  Arling.  Up  to  this 
point,  we  have  deemed  your  case  hopeless ;  now,  truly,  we 
think  better  of  it.  To  recognize  one's  folly  is  the  first  step 
toward  breaking  from  its  bondage.  To  have  learned  that 
the  fruits  of  righteousness  do  not  ripen  on  the  tree  of 
worldly  wisdom,  is,  perhaps,  to  feel  the  first  faint  hunger 
for  the  saving  fruitage  of  the  tree  of  life.  There  may  be 


4:96  HOLDEN    WITH    THE   COltUS. 

the  making  of  a  man — a  contrite,  humbled,  subdued, 
scarred,  but  free  man — in  you  yet ! 

Ignoi'irig,  or  unconscious  of,  these  grounds  of  hope  for 
the  future,  however,  Dick  continued  to  busy  himself  with 
his  fears  for  the  present.  Nor  did  they  prove  to  be  cause 
less  ;  he  was  not  yet  in  sight  of  his  door,  when  he 
heard  the  sound  of  impatient  knocking  thereat.  Stealing 
to  a  point  where  he  could  see  without  being  seen,  his  worst 
fears  were  realized, — the  unwelcome  visitor  was  Doctor 
Remy. 

"De  puerta  cerrada  el  diablo  se  torna, — From  a  locked 
door,  the  devil  turns  away,"  he  muttered,  settling  himself 
in  his  hiding  place,  with  the  intention  of  remaining  there 
until  the  anticipated  departure. 

But  the  doctor  was  not  to  be  thus  balked.  After  re 
peated  knockings,  with  short  intervals  of  waiting,  he  finally 
drew  back  from  the  door  with  the  evident  intention  of 
bursting  it  in ;  whereupon  Dick  hastened  to  make  his 
appearance,  doing  his  best  to  assume  an  air  of  easy  non 
chalance. 

'<He  who  brings  good  news,  knocks  hard,"  he  called 
out,  by  way  of  arresting  the  doctor's  attention,  and  saving 
the  door.  "  Or,  as  the  Germans  say,  He  who  brings,  is 
welcome ;  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  settle  our  little 
account." 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  to  settle  accounts  with  you,"  replied 
Doctor  Remy,  with  grim  irony.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  about  this  other  will  ?  " 

"  What  other  will  ?  "  asked  Dick,  innocently. 

"  I  am  in  no  humor  for  trifling,"  returned  Doctor  Remy ; 
— "Major  Bergan's  will,  that  you  witnessed  a  fortnight 
ago." 

"  CTest  la  glose  d1  Orleans, — that  is  to  say,  the  commen 
tary  is  more  obscure  than  the  text,"  answered  Dick,  shak 
ing  his  head,  as  if  he  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

"  Don't  try  my  patience  too  far,"  rejoined  the  doctor, 


THE   SET  TIME.  497 

menacingly.     "  I  have  just  seen  Mr.  Tatum,  and  he  told 
me  of  the  will,  and  named  you  as  one  of  the  witnesses." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  asked  Dick,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Then 
I  must  be  like  '  el  escudero  de  Guadalaxara,  que  de  lo  que 
dice  de  noche,  no  hay  nada  d  la  inanana?  Do  you  under 
stand  Spanish  ?  " . 

"  Do  you  understand  English  ?  "  growled  Doctor  Remy. 
"  I  asked  you  if  you  had  witnessed  a  will ;  and  I  want  to 
know  what  was  in  it." 

"  And  I  gave  you  to  understand  that  if  I  had,  it  must 
have  been  when  I  was  too  drunk  to  remember  anything 
about  it,"  responded  Dick. 

Doctor  Remy's  eyes  flashed  ominously.  "  I  shall  find  a 
way  to  refresh  your  memory,"  said  he.  "  One  question 
more,  and  I  warn  you  that  you  had  better  give  me  a 
straightforward  answer,  and  not  try  to  put  me  off  Avith  a 
proverb;  —  what  was  done  with  the  will  after  it  was 
made  ?  " 

"  Why,  hasn't  it  been  found  ?  "  asked  Dick,  with  sur 
prise  that  was  plainly  genuine. 

"  No,  it  has  not,"  replied  Doctor  Remy,  curtly.  "  See 
here,  Dick,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  quitting  his  threaten 
ing  tone  for  one  of  persuasion  ;  "  I'll  make  it  well  worth 
your  while  to  tell  me  all  you  know  about  that  will.  Open 
the  door — I'm  tired  of  standing — and  we'll  go  in  and  talk 
it  over." 

"  I — I — it's  pleasanter  outside,"  stammered  Dick,  fairly 
driven  to  his  wit's  end  by  this  proposal.  "  Besides,  '  walls 
have  ears  ; '  no  place  like  the  open  air  for  your  business — 
and  mine." 

"  Your  walls  should  be  deaf,"  answered  the  doctor, 
looking  at  him  suspiciously  ;  "  you  live  alone,  do  you 
not?" 

"  Yes,  certainly  ;  but  no  walls  arc  to  be  trusted  ;  me/l 
ance  est  mere  de  stirete." 

"  Very  true,"  replied  Doctor  Remy ;  "  and  I  distrust  you. 


493  1IOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

Open  that  door  at  once,  and  let  me  sec  what  or  whom  it  is, 
that  yon  are  so  anxious  to  conceal." 

Dick's  consternation  was  extreme.  Still,  he  did  what 
he  could  to  gain  time  ;  assistance  might  be  on  the  road. 
He  began  to  fumble  in  his  pockets.  "  Very  happy  to 
oblige  you,  I'm  sure,"  he  faltered,  with  a  poor  assumption 
of  graciousness.  "  But,  '  He  that  will  be  served  must  be 
patient.'  I  declare  !  I  believe  I've  lost  that  key  !  Still, 
Mais  val  perder,  que  mais  perd — " 

"  Will  you  open  that  door  ?  "  interrupted  Doctor  Remy, 
fiercely,  "  or  shall  I  do  it  myself?" 

Dick  lifted  his  head  boldly;  his  straining  ears  had 
caught  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps.  "  A  man's  house  is 
his  castle,"  he  began ; — but  Doctor  Remy  stopped  the  rest 
of  the  sentence  in  his  throat,  with  one  hand,  while  he  thrust 
the  other  into  his  pocket  for  the  key.  Dick  uttered  a 
smothered  cry.  Immediately  Doctor  Remy  heard  the  door 
tried  from  within  ;  the  next  moment,  the  window  beside  it 
was  flung  open,  and  the  pale,  stern  face  of  Bergan  Arling 
met  his  astonished  sight. 

At  the  same  instant,  he  saw  several  persons  emerging 
from  the  shadow  of  the  Oakstead  woods.  Mr.  Bergan, 
Hubert  Arling,  and  Doctor  Gerrish,  he  recognized  at  a 
glance,  and  he  stayed  to  recognize  no  more  : — these,  in  con 
junction  with  Bergan — alive,  and  in  possession  of  his  facul 
ties — were  enough  to  show  him  that  his  deep-laid  scheme 
had  come  to  naught,  that  the  prize  for  which  he  had  thought, 
labored,  and  sinned,  was  snatched  from  his  hands  in  the 
very  moment  of  success.  Some  important  figure — could  it 
be  Providence? — had  been  overlooked  or  changed  in  his 
calculations,  and  made  them  all  come  wrong. 

Yet  he  had  failed  before.  Bitterly  he  acknowledged  to 
himself  that,  despite  his  rich  natural  endowments  of  intel 
lect,  courage,  will,  and  resource,  his  life  had  been,  on  the 
whole,  a  succession  of  failures.  The  consequences  of  one 
early  mistake  had  followed,  hampered,  modified,  and  de- 


THE    SET   TIME.  499 

fcatcd,  every  effort  that  he  had  made  to  rise  above  a  cer 
tain  level  of  station,  fortune,  or  reputation.  Nevertheless, 
he  had  saved  from  every  wreck,  thus  far,  an  unbroken  spirit 
and  an  inexhaustible  invention.  What  was  there  in  the 
present  one  to  cause  his  heart  to  shiver  and  shrink  with  so 
deadly  a  chill  of  despair,  to  smite  him  with  so  heavy  an  in 
tuition  that  the  measure  of  his  opportunities  for  good  or 
evil  was  full,  and  that  some  set  time  of  i%eckonin<j  was  at 

*  O 

hand  ?  Nay,  he  would  not  be  daunted  !  There  must  be 
some  expedient — some  bold  stroke  or  crafty  subterfuge — by 
which  he  could  still  wring  safety,  at  least,  from  the  hands 
of  defeat. 

He  ran  his  eye  over  the  scene  of  his  recent  operations, 
as  a  general  might  scan  a  disastrous  battle-field.  Instantly, 
the  intercepted  letters,  the  forged  will,  the  poisoned 
powder,  the  attack  on  Bergan  Arling,  set  themselves  in 
order  before  him, — revolted  soldiers,  once  his  obedient  ser 
vants,  now  gone  over  to  the  enemy.  No  !  the  odds  were 
too  great.  Nothing  was  left  him  but  flight ; — nay,  it  was 
a  question  if  even  that  remained, — pursuit  was  so  near! 
Still,  it  must  be  tried. 

Giving  Dick  a  final  choke,  to  render  him  incapable  of 
immediate  action,  he  flung  him  on  the  ground,  and  fled 
towards  the  nearest  bank.  Once  across  the  excavation, 
there  was  a  thick  wood  beyond,  in  which  he  would  quickly 
be  lost  to  sight ;  and  the  present  was  all  he  had  time  to 
think  of;  the  future  must  care  for  itself.  One  moment  his 
tall  form  was  seen,  by  the  approaching  party,  on  the  edge 
of  the  bank,  clearly  defined  against  the  twilight  sky ;  the 
next,  it  sank  suddenly  from  view,  both  hands  raised,  ap 
parently  in  a  mocking  gesture  of  farewell,  or  it  might  be,  of 
defiance. 

Hubert  Arling  immediately  recognized  the  fugitive,  and 
hastened  after  him.  Arrived  at  the  brink  of  the  excava 
tion,  he  was  amazed  to  find  that  Doctor  Remy  was  nowhere 
in  siflrht,  although  it  seemed  incredible  that  he  could  have 

O         J  O 


500  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

traversed  the  sandy  chasm  so  quickly.  Nothing  daunted, 
however,  Hubert  leaped  the  precipice,  half-burying  himself 
in  the  soft  sand  at  the  bottom,  struggled  across,  climbed 
the  opposite  bank — taking  much  more  time,  it  seemed  to 
him,  than  his  predecessor  had  done — and  plunged  into  the 
wood  beyond.  Here,  he  soon  found  that  all  the  odds  were 
against  him  ;  the  underbrush  was  thick,  the  wood  was  soon 
merged  in  a  dense  juniper  swamp  ;  the  twilight  was  deep 
ening  ;  a  hundred  men  might  easily  elude  his  single  search. 
It  was  necessary  to  go  back  and  obtain  organized  assistance. 

He  was  rejoiced  to  find  Bergan  in  the  cabin,  though  his 
state  was  such  as  to  cause  intense  anxiety.  The  great  ex 
ertion  that  he  had  made  to  interfere  between  Doctor  Remy 
and  Dick — believing  the  latter  to  be  in  danger  of  losing  his 
life  in  behalf  of  his  guest — had  caused  his  wound  to  re-open  ; 
and  when  Dick  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  make  it 
known  that  Bergan  was  within,  and  to  unlock  the  door,  he 
was  found  on  the  floor  under  the  window,  in  a  death-like 
faint.  Doctor  Gerrish,  however,  at  once  took  him  in  hand, 
with  great  personal  good  will,  and  no  small  amount  of  medi 
cal  efficiency.  And  no  sooner  was  he  pronounced  out  of 
immediate  danger — although  he  had  relapsed  into  fever 
and  delirium — than  Hubert's  mind  recurred  to  the  inter 
mitted  pursuit  of  Doctor  Remy.  From  the  first,  he  had 
shared  Doctor  Trubie's  suspicions,  and  having  now  heard 
the  several  stories  of  Mr.  Bergan,  Doctor  Gerrish,  and  Dick, 
and  pretty  accurately  divined  their  logical  connection  and 
drift,  he  was  strongly  of  the  opinion  that  the  doctor's  evil 
career  should  be  brought  to  a  close.  No  consideration  of 
family,  friendship,  or  love,  he  thought,  should  interfere  to 
save  him  from  richly  deserved  punishment,  and  leave  him 
at  large  to  work  new  wickedness.  So  thinking,  he  put  his 
thoughts  into  prompt,  resolute,  persevering  action. 

But  it  was  wholly  in  vain.  If  the  earth  had  opened  and 
swallowed  him  up,  Doctor  Remy  could  not  have  disappeared 
more  effectually.  Far  and  near,  no  trace  was  found  of  his 


THE   SET  TIME.  501 

course,  no  clue  to  his  hiding  place.  The  flight  of  a  bird 
through  the  air,  the  dart  of  a  fish  through  the  wave,  do  not 
leave  less  visible  track  behind.  Day  by  day,  Hubert  had 
to  acknowledge  himself  baffled,  puzzled,  confounded  ;  but 
he  would  not  be  discourage-1  Doctor  Trubie  having  been 
sent  for,  had  joined  him,  and  between  the  two,  the  search 
went  obstinately  on. 


VIIL 
GIFT  A:NT>  GIVEK. 

was  in  her  own  room.  Her  face  was  pale,  her 
mouth  and  eyes  deeply  serious.  At  last,  she  had  been 
put  in  possession  of  all  the  facts  hitherto  concealed 
from  her.  She  knew  by  what  base  means  she  had  been 
separated  from  Bergan,  and  married  to  a  man  known  lo  be  a 
forger,  suspected  to  be  a  murderer,  and  nown  fugitive  from 
justice.  She  was  also  aware  that,  so  far  as  her  own  con 
sciousness  went,  she  had  lost  a  year  out  of  her  life.  None 
the  less,  she  felt  in  her  deep  heart  that  her  soul  had  not 
stood  still  during  this  suspension  of  certain  of  her  faculties, 
but  had  accomplished  some  rapid,  sensible  growth.  She 
was  not,  in  all  respects,  the  same  Carice  who  had  fallen 
through  the  gap  in  the  foot-bridge.  She  contemplated  her 
situation  with  far  less  dismay  and  bewilderment  than  that 
immaturer  self  could  have  done  ;  in  some  mysterious  way, 
her  year  of  unconsciousness  had  been  also  a  year  of  prepa 
ration  for  the  difficulties  that  it  had  postponed  ;  she  now 
faced  them  with  a  deeper  insight,  a  broader  comprehension, 
and  a  calmer  courage.  She  blinded  herself  with  no  sub 
tleties  nor  evasions  ;  she  dimmed  the  clear  medium  of  her 
integrity  with  no  selfish  breath  ;  but  counted  herself  what 
that  solemn  marriage  ceremony  had  made  her — a  wife. 
She  must  remain  such  until  the  plea  of  "  wilful  desertion 
for  a  year,"  in  the  courts  of  law,  should  secure  for  her  a  cer 
tain  personal  freedom.  But  even  then,  she  would  be  only  a 
deserted  wife  ; — in  her  opinion,  divorce  was  powerless  ex 
cept  as  regarded  separation.  The  virtual  relation,  she 
believed,  could  only  be  dissolved  by  death ;  and  that 


GIFT   AND   GIVER.  503 

meant,  in  this  case,  perhaps,  the  arrest,  conviction,  and 
execution  of  Doctor  Remy.  She  shuddered  at  the  thought. 
She  could  not  wish  the  barrier  between  Bergan  and  her 
self  to  be  thus  removed. 

Bergan  ? — She  dared  not  think  of  him  !  He  was  lying 
so  dangerously  ill ! — yet  she  must  not  go  to  him  ; — she 
could  trust  neither  her  thoughts  nor  herself  by  that  bedside. 
She  must  just  leave  him,  where  she  left  all  her  own  cares 
and  sorrows,  in  the  hands  of  God.  She  waited  upon  Him  : 
in  His  own  good  time  and  way,  He  would  make  it  clear 
that  He  reigned,  and  that  His  sceptre  was  justice,  and  His 
crown  mercy. 

Mrs.  Bergan  opened  the  door.  "  My  child,"  she  asked, 
tenderly,  "  would  you  like  to  see  a  visitor  ?  " 

"  Whom  ?  "  asked  Carice,  with  a  little  wonder ; — her 
mother  had  been  so  careful  to  spare  her  all  intrusion,  during 
these  trying  days. 

Mrs.  Bergan  shook  her  head.  "I  really  don't  know;  I 
was  so  taken  with  her  face,  that  I  forgot  to  ask  her  name. 
She  said  that  she  was  a  friend  of  Astra  Lyte's,  and  of — 
Bergan's." 

"  Mamma,  could  I  not  be  excused  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so, — if  you  really  wish  it.  But  you  would 
never  think  of  refusing  her,  if  you  once  saw  her;  she  has 
such  a  princess-like  way  with  her,  as  if  she  had  never  been 
refused  anything  in  her  life — except  happiness.  She  has 
the  most  beautiful  face  that  I  ever  saw,  but  there  is  a  shadow 
over  it,  as  if  she  had  known  great  sorrow." 

Carice  felt  a  jealous  pang.  Beautiful !  and  Bergan's 
friend?  Sad?  of  course,  since  he  was  in  danger! 

Mrs.  Bergan  went  on.  "  She  said  she  had  a  story  to 
tell  you.  And  when  I  hesitated — fearing  that  it  might  be 
some  new  trouble  or  excitement — you  have  had  enough  such, 
of  late,  deal' — she  smiled,  as  if  she  knew  what  I  was  thinking, 
and  said, — '  Have  no  fear,  madam ;  my  story  will  do  her 
good,  not  harm  ! '  Shall  I  let  her  come  up  ?" 


504  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    CORDS. 

An  hour  after,  the  door  of  Bergan's  sick-room  opened 
gently.  His  eyes  were  closed ;  he,  too,  had  been  thinking, 
as  deeply  as  his  weak,  half  unconscious  state  permitted ;  and 
his  thoughts  had  been  strangely  like  those  of  Carice.  The 
tangled  web  left  behind  by  Doctor  Remy  would  be  hard  to 
unravel,  he  felt ;  and  in  the  process,  there  would  be  much 
pain,  loss,  anxiety,  and  disgrace, — especially  for  Carice. 
His  heart  ached  for  her ; — and  a  little  also — for  he  was  very 
weak  and  weary — for  himself.  Would  it  not  be  well  to 
have  done  with  it  all, — to  let  thought,  care,  and  life  drift 
away  together,  as  they  seemed  so  ready  to  do,  if  only  he 
ceased  to  hold  them  back  ?  It  would  be  so  much  easier  to 
let  them  go  ! — was  there  really  any  good  reason  why  he 
should  try  to  live  ? 

Hearing  the  door  close,  and  the  sound  of  light  footsteps, 
he  languidly  opened  his  eyes.  Diva  Thane  was  standing 
at  his  bedside,  holding  the  blushing  Carice  by  the  hand, 
and  smiling  down  upon  him  with  eyes  deep-lit  by  a  myste 
rious  radiance.  There  was  a  lofty  beauty  in  her  face,  a 
look  of  victory  after  conflict,  that  he  had  never  seen  there 
before. 

His  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  He  remembered  his 
strange,  repeated  intuition  that  that  fair,  firm  hand  would 
some  day  bestow  upon  him  an  inestimable  blessing.  Was 
the  time  come  ? 

"  I  bring  you  a  gift,"  said  she,  in  low,  rich  tones,  full  of 
feeling  as  of  melody.  "  This  little,  maiden  hand — free  from 
every  claim  as  from  every  stain — is  the  best  return  that  I 
can  make  for  what  you  have  done  for  me."  And,  placing 
Carice's  hand  in  his,  she  added,  solemnly  : — "  I  give  it  to 
you,  for  I  have  the  right :  I  am  the  wife  of  Edmund 
Roath." 

The  rush  of  joy  was  almost  too  great.  It  swept  over 
Bergan's  senses  like  a  great  whelming  wave ;  speech  and 
sound  were  lost  in  it ;  sight  was  gone,  except  for  Carice's 
sweet,  fair  face,  the  one  point  of  light  in  a  vast  ocean  of 


GIFT   AND    GIVEK.  505 

blackness ;  feeling  was  annihilated,  save  that  he  clung  to 
that  dear  hand  as  to  the  one  ti'easure  that  he  would  not  be 
parted  from,  let  him  be  carried  whither  he  might.  Firmly 
and  tenderly  it  closed  upon  his,  too, — seeming  to  be  the 
only  thing  which  kept  him  from  drifting  out  into  that  wide 
obscurity,  and  brought  him  back  to  the  steady  standing- 
ground  of  consciousness.  There  he  was  met  by  a  rush  of 
gratitude  and  sympathy  only  a  little  less  overpowering. 
He  knew  so  well  what  that  avowal  had  cost  Diva's  pride  ! 
He  understood  so  clearly  whence  came  that  solemn  light  of 
sacrifice  in  her  eyes,  that  exalted  beauty  in  her  face,  and 
how  dearly  it  had  been  won  !  Still  holding  Carice  fast 
with  one  hand,  he  held  out  the  other  to  her,  with  emotion 
too  deep  for  aught  but  a  benediction. 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  murmured,  fervently.  And  he 
added,  in  a  tone  of  entire  conviction ; — "  I  am  sure  He 
will." 

She  bent  her  graceful  head, — no  longer  haughty  in  its 
pose, — gave  his  hand  an  earnest,  heartening  pressure,  and 
glided  from  the  room. 

All  gentle,  delicate  souls,  all  sympathetic  hearts,  go 
with  her ;  curiosity,  coldness,  rudeness,  must  needs  follow 
after.  In  that  sick-room,  Love  only  may  remain, — Love 
which,  by  its  long  patience  of  sorrow,  its  steady  conscien 
tiousness,  its  freedom  from  all  self-seeking,  has  won  at  last 
its  blessed  right  to  be, — and  to  be  happy  ! 

At  a  little  distance  from  the  cabin  was  a  huge  ilex  tree, 
in  the  broad,  low  shade  of  which  Dick  had  once  been  moved 
to  set  up  a  rude  bench.  Thither  Diva  betook  herself  to 
wait  for  Carice.  Thei'e  was  a  pleasant  enough  prospect  be 
fore  her,  beyond  the  gulf  of  sand, — the  creek  on  its  sunshiny 
way  to  the  sea,  the  pines  and  water  oaks  mingling  their 
moss-hung  boughs  and  diverse  verdure, — but  it  is  doubtful 
if  she  was  aware  of  it.  Her  eyes — whether  bent  on  the 
ground  at  her  feet,  or  lifted  to  some  far  point  of  the  blue 
22 


506  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE   COEDS. 

horizon — spoke  plainly  of  a  mind  too  busy  with  its  own  re 
flections  to  be  anywise  cognizant  of  outward  objects.  She 
was  reviewing  the  main  events  of  her  life  by  the  new  light 
recently  shed  on  them,  discovering  a  connection,  a  har 
mony,  and  a  meaning  in  them  unsuspected  before,  and 
gaining  thereby  a  deeper  sense  of  the  might  and  wisdom  of 
that  overruling  Providence  in  whom  she  had  come  so  lately 
to  believe. 

She  had  been  reared  in  almost  princely  affluence,  as  well 
as  in  professed  scepticism ; — every  material  wish  gratified, 
every  material  caprice  humored ;  no  spiritual  want  recog 
nized,  no  spiritual  yearning  indulged.  Early  accustomed 
to  admiration  and  adulation,  she  grew  up  proud,  imperious, 
self-reliant,  counting  herself  made  of  more  excellent  clay 
than  often  went  to  the  fashioning  of  human  organisms,  as 
she  was  certainly  endowed  with  an  intellect  of  no  common 
strength  and  fineness  of  fibre,  which  her  father  took  care  to 
feed  with  all  his  own  learned  and  labored  Philosophy  of 
Doubt.  She  was  taught  to  scorn  faith,  to  deride  inspira 
tion,  to  scoff  at  worship,  to  acknowledge  no  law  but  her 
own  will,  no  higher  rule  of  life  than  '•'•Noblesse  oblige." 
Yet  she  had  generous  impulses  and  strong  affections ;  the 
very  weeds  that  grew  to  such  rank  luxuriance  in  her  char 
acter  bore  witness  to  the  natural  richness  of  the  soil.  Nor 
was  she  without  a  deep,  innate  reverence,  inherited  from 
the  mother  that  she  had  never  known, — which,  being  di- 

*  7  O 

•verted  from  its  proper  objects,  fell  to  deifying  human  genius 
and  intellect,  and  suffered  sorely  in  seeing  them  betray, 
soon  or  late,  how  much  of  their  substance  was  human  dust. 
Disappointed  thus  in  the  concrete,  she  turned  to  the  ab 
stract  ;  first  Song,  then  Art,  became  the  idol  of  her  imag 
ination,  the  object  of  her  devoted  worship.  Her  father's 
health  failing  about  this  time,  both  looked  to  Italy  as  their 
natural  goal,  the  one  for  healing,  the  other  for  culture. 
There  they  met  the  man  whose  potent  influence  was  to 
change  the  whole  current  of  her  life. 


GIFT   AND   GIVEK.  507 

Ho  had  everything  necessary  to  recommend  him  to  her 
favor ; — a  manly  figure  and  bearing,  regular,  clear-cut  fea 
tures,  a  bold,  acute,  powerful  intellect,  and  varied  culture. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  mystery  about  him  which  acted  as 
a  stimulant  to  interest.  No  one  knew  whence  he  came, 
and  he  gave  no  account  of  himself  beyond  what  was  to 
be  inferred  from  chance  words  and  phrases,  coming  by 
accident,  as  it  were,  to  the  surface  of  the  stream  of  conver 
sation, — oracular  utterances,  capable  of  diverse  construc 
tion  ; — which,  after  being  long  brooded  over  in  her  imag 
ination,  were  turned  into  such  rich,  airy,  poetic  shapes,  as 
even  he,  with  all  his  subtlety,  would  never  have  thought  of 
suggesting.  None  the  less,  they  did  him  friendly  service. 
Moreover,  he  had,  in  some  way,  acquired  no  small  amount 
of  medical  science,  which  he  put  to  good  use  in  alleviating 
her  father's  sufferings,  although  it  had  become  evident  that 
his  malady  was  incurable.  By  this  means,  he  soon  ac 
quired  such  an  ascendancy  over  the  invalid's  mind,  and  so 
firm  a  hold  upon  his  confidence,  as  to  lead  him  easily  to 
believe  that  he  could  do  nothing  better  for  his  child's 
future  than  to  commit  it  to  such  strong,  kind,  wise  hands. 
Accordingly,  she  was  wedded,  in  the  American  Consulate 
at  Rome,  to  Earle  Roy  ;  under  which  suggestive  name  she 
had  no  doubt  was  hidden  a  disguised  noble,  an  exiled 
prince,  or  some  equally  exalted  seeker  after  disinterested 
love  or  sufficing  consolation. 

Descending  the  staircase,  immediately  after  the  cere 
mony,  they  met  a  travel-stained  gentleman  coming  up, 
who  started  at  sight  of  her  husband,  and  uttered  the  name 
of  "  Edmund  Roath."  He  started  in  his  turn,  and  grew 
deadly  pale ;  nevertheless,  he  haughtily  affirmed  that  it 
was  "  a  mistake,"  conducted  her  home,  begged  to  be  ex 
cused  while  he  attended  to  some  forgotten  formality,  and 
left  her  with  the  careless  smile  and  bow  that  argues  an 
immediate  return.  Hours  passed, — days  passed, — yet  he 
came  not ;  neither  had  he  left  any  track,  trace,  or  clue 


508  HOLDER   WITH   THE   COKDS. 

behind.  It  was  as  if  he  had  melted  into  thin  air.  There 
•were  those  who  hinted  that  a  flight  so  sudden,  swift,  and 
effectual,  must  all  along  have  been  foreseen  as  a  possible 
necessity,  and  provided  for.  She  poured  her  loftiest  scorn 
on  the  imputation ;  she  believed  him  to  have  been  mur 
dered  by  robbers  or  secret  political  agents. 

The  shock  hastened  her  father's  death.  In  one  week 
she  was  both  a  deserted  bride  and  an  orphan  ;  free — with 
almost  unlimited  wealth  at  command — to  grieve  or  search,  as 
she  chose, — to  avenge,  if  she  could.  She  threw  herself  into 
the  work  of  investigation :  the  police  were  marvellously 
ready  to  assist  her,  they  took  her  money,  and  followed  out 
her  suggestions ;  by-and-by,  she  was  amazed  to  find  that  her 
own  house  and  movements  enjoyed  no  inconsiderable  share 
of  their  attention.  It  looked  as  if  they  suspected  that  her 
husband  would  return  to  her,  and  meant  to  be  on  the  spot ! 
The  thought  shook  her  with  a  sudden  terror.  It  was  pos 
sible  that  he  had  fled — being  warned  in  time  to  fly,  but 
not  to  explain — from  some  secret  danger,  some  dark  polit 
ical  vengeance,  and  that  she  was  only  helping  to  hunt  him 
down  ! 

In  this  connection,  she  recalled  that  casual  meeting  on 
the  Consulate  staircase,  and  hailed  it  as  a  possible  clue. 
She  succeeded  in  finding  the  traveller,  and  in  forcing  from 
him  a  reluctant  explanation, — reluctant  because  he  had  a 
kind  heart,  and  was  unwilling  to  give  pain.  His  name 
was  Mark  Tracey ;  he  had  been  a  class-mate  of  Edmund 
Roath,  knew  him  well,  and  believed  him  to  be  the  mur 
derer  of  Alec  Arling.  He  had  deemed  it  his  duty,  on 
recognizing  him,  to  inform  the  Consul  who  and  what  he 
was  ;  and  measures  were  forthwith  taken  to  put  him  under 
surveillance.  Nevertheless,  Roath  had  made  good  his 
escape  before  the  slow  Italian  officials  could  be  made  to 
comprehend  what  was  wanted,  and  set  about  it.  For  him 
self,  he  had  done  only  what  he  thought  right;  yet,  now 
that  he  saw  what  manner  of  bride  had  been  so  wofully 


GIFT   AND   GIVER.  509 

bereaved,  he  could  almost  wish  that  he  had  held  his  peace, 
and  left  Roath  to  the  new  and  better  life  which  he  mi^ht 

O 

have  led  under  such  fair  auspices.  Still,  he  gently  added, 
the  holiest  influences  did  not  always  avail  to  straighten  a 
warped  mind  and  will,  while  these  often  spread  around  them 
a  fatal  infection  ; — it  were  better  to — 

She  stopped  him  there,  thanking  him  for  his  sympathy, 
but  rejecting  his  conclusions.  Either  the  man  that  he  had 
met  was  not  Edmund  Roath,  or  Edmund  Roatli  was  the 
unhappy  victim  of  a  specious  train  of  circumstances.  One 
of  these  alternatives  must  be  true.  So  she  proudly  told 
him ;  so  she  tried  to  tell  herself,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to 
every  deep,  inner  voice  that  ventured  to  assail  or  to  ques 
tion  her.  None  the  less,  she  had  lost  all  heart  for  the 
search  which,  it  now  appeared,  she  had  not  so  much  insti 
tuted  as  joined  in.  On  her  part,  it  was  quietly  allowed 
to  drop.  All  the  same,  news  finally  reached  her  that  Ed 
mund  Roath  had  died,  and  was  buried,  in  a  small,  distant 
seaport  town.  Two  men  had  been  landed  there  from  a 
foreign  vessel,  one  an  invalid  far  gone  with  pneumonia,  the 
other  his  faithful  friend  and  nurse.  The  invalid  had  died 
in  a  day  or  two;  the  friend  had  reared  a  stone  "In  mem 
ory  of  Edmund  Roath  "  over  his  grave,  and  sailed  away 
in  another  ship.  His  name  was  an  unpronounceable  for 
eign  one ;  as  to  the  invalid's,  they  had  never  heard  it  until 
after  his  death,  his  friend  had  always  called  him  by  some 
familiar  sobriquet. 

There  was  a  suggestion  in  this  last  bit  of  history,  which 
Diva  was  quick  to  notice.  She  had  the  coffin  disinterred, 
and  satisfied  herself  that  the  body  therein  contained  was 
not  that  of  the  man  whom  she  had  married, — albeit,  she 
found  on  its  chill  finger  a  ring  which  she  had  given  him, 
and  saw  that  there  were  some  striking  similarities  of  height, 
complexion,  and  color  of  hair  and  eyes.  She  needed  no  fur 
ther  proof  that  Eaiic  Roy  and  Edmund  Roath  were  one  and 
the  s.'imc,  and  she  believed  that  he  still  lived,  answering  to 


510  110LDEN    WITH    THE   COliDS. 

the  dead  man's  name,  and  playing  lus  part,  on  some  distant 
staore.  However,  she  took  care  that  her  actions  should  ex- 

O  ' 

press  quite  the  contrary  conviction  ;  she  caused  the  re 
interment  to  be  so  arranged  as  to  suggest  an  intended 
removal ;  she  generously  requited  every  kindness  shown 
to  the  invalid ;  finally,  she  put  on  deep  widow's  weeds, 
and  sickened  to  feel  them  so  appropriate.  She  had  a  som 
bre  intuition  that  Edmund  Roath  was  dead  to  her.  Noth 
ing  remained  of  him  but  his  backAvard  shadow  on  her 
heart  and  life.  The  places  that  had  known  him  grew  dim 
and  tomb-like.  The  wealth  which  had  doubtless  been  his 
main  object,  became  worthless  in  her  eyes.  The  chill  ma 
terialism  with  which  he  had  imbued  her  mind,  in  place  of 
the  more  rationalistic  creed  of  her  father,  made  all  things 
ring  hollow  to  her  touch.  The  charm  of  Italy  was  gone ; 
its  sky  had  faded,  its  atmosphere  was  as  heavy  with  the 
weight  of  a  dead  Past  as  her  own  heart.  She  longed  for 
a  new  sky  above,  new  earth  below,  new  air  to  breathe,  a 
new  life  to  live.  She  longed,  too, — poor,  empty  heart! 
poor,  hungry  soul ! — for  something  to  love  and  to  rever 
ence,  though  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  it ;  she  knew 
only  that  she  had  a  deep  thirst  which  nothing  quenched. 

To  settle  herself  near  her  one  intimate  friend,  Coralie 
Youle ;  to  reassume  her  maiden  name,  since  she  had  no 
right  to  that  of  Roy,  and  only  wanted  to  forget  that  of 
Roath  ;  to  lead  the  simple,  free,  independent  life  of  an  ar 
tist,  without  hampering  ties,  duties,  or  responsibilities ; — 
this  was  the  shape  into  which  her  longing  finally  crystal 
lized.  Art  had  been  her  idol  when  Love  came  to  dethrone 
it;  she  had  not  had  time  to  tire  of  it,  to  learn  how  inev 
itably  it,  also,  resolves  itself  into  dust,  unless  breathed  upon 
by  a  spirit  Divine.  So  she  came  to  Savalla,  and  was 
brought  into  contact  with  Bergan  and  his  firm,  frank  Chris 
tian  faith, — which  it  was  impossible  to  contemn,  being 
joined  to  an  intellect  so  strong  and  fine,  and  a  life  so  noble. 
So  she  found  her  aunt,  and  saw  how  even  the  Valley  of 


GIFT    AND   GIVEE.  511 

Shadow  was  made  radiant  by  the  gladness  of  her  Christian 
hope.  Thus  her  scepticism  was  at  first  melted  by  the  sun 
shine,  rather  than  worsted  by  force  of  arms.  By  and  by, 
however,  she  dared  Bergan  to  controversy,  and  found  that 
she  had  met  her  master.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  been 
beaten  in  many  of  his  battles  witli  Doctor  Remy ;  he  had 
since  made  it  his  business  to  be  able  to  give  good  reasons 
for  the  hope  that  was  in  him.  He  could  now  make  it  man 
ifest  that  Christian  Faith  had  quite  as  much  to  say  for  her 
self  as  infidel  doubt,  and  could  say  it  quite  as  clearly, 
logically,  and  cogently.  Mind  and  heart  opened,  at  last, 
to  receive  the  heavenly  guest,  under  whose  fair,  white  gar 
ments,  Diva  now  knew,  was  sometimes  hidden  a  coat  of 
wrought  mail  that  no  sword  could  pierce,  and  who,  al 
though  she  had  wings  to  soar  beyond  the  stars,  had  also 
feet  to  plant  firmly  on  the  rock  of  truth. 

Finally,  she  had  learned  the  identity  of  Edmund  Roath 
and  Felix  Remy  by  means  of  a  sketch  accidentally  discov 
ered  in  Astra's  portfolio ;  she  wondered  that  she  had  not 
suspected  it  before,  seeing  how  plainly  he  had  left  his  evil 
mark  on  Astra's  mind.  She  was  glad  to  think  that  she 
had  been  instrumental  in  obliterating  it ;  he  himself  having 
helped  to  fit  her  for  the  work.  Meanwhile,  he  had  married 
Astra's  friend.  What  was  her  duty  in  this  case ;  to  speak, 
or  to  be  silent  ?  Silence  was  the  pleasanter  thing,  speech 
might  be  the  only  right  thing.  Sharp  was  the  conflict, 
puzzling  the  controversy.  It  was  not  decided  until  she 
happened  to  meet  Hubert  Arling,  and  learned  in  what 
search  he  was  engaged,  and  what  state  of  things  existed  in 
Berganton.  Then,  moved  by  gratitude  to  Bergan,  she  had 
sought  Carice. 

But  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  Reared  in  faith 
lessness,  she  had  been  led  to  faith.  Proud,  she  had  been 
humbled.  Wedded  to  Edmund  Roath,  she  had  been  made 
to  follow  in  his  track,  and  undo,  in  some  degree,  his  wicked 
work.  So  much  was  plain,  eveii  now ;  the  rest  would  be 


512  HOLDEN   WITH   THE   CORDS. 

read,  in  time.  But  oh  !  the  mystery,  the  wonder,  of  that 
overruling  Providence,  who  caught  up  man's  Avilful  de 
signs,  ere  they  were  out  of  his  hands,  and  turned  them  to 
His  own  vast  purposes  ! 

A  light  footstep  fell  behind  her.  Turning,  she  beheld 
Carice's  soft  eyes, — eyes  which,  she  thought  half-enviously, 
showed  so  plainly  that  they  had  never  looked  upward 
through  the  smoked  glass  of  doubt,  to  divest  the  sun  of  his 
glory,  the  sky  of  its  blue,  and  call  it  seeing  more  clear. 

"  We  have  been  talking  of  you,"  said  Carice,  with  gen 
tle  directness. 

Diva  smiled  faintly.  "  I  thought  you  would  have 
pleasanter  topics,"  she  answered,  half-absently,  half-sadly. 

"Where  could  we  have  found  them?"  asked  Carice, 
earnestly.  "  Oh,  Diva,  you  will  never  know — we  shall 
never  be  able  to  tell  you — what  we  think  of  you !  But, 
Bergan  says  this  search  after  the  doctor  must  be  stopped 
at  once." 

"He  is  very  kind,"  replied  Diva,  quietly;  "I  under 
stand  what  he  would  spare  me.  Tell  him  to  give  himself 
no  disquietude  on  that  head.  I  dare  not  lift  a  linger  to 
stay  the  feet  of  justice,  if  I  could ;  I  can  bear  whatever 
Providence  sends.  But  my  dread  is  not  the  expiation  of 
the  scaffold,  but  the  finding  of  no  space  for  repentance. 
My  conviction  is  strong  that — my  husband  will  never  be 
taken  alive." 

The  quick  tears  came  into  Carice's  sympathetic  eyes ; 
but  Diva  only  fixed  her  sad,  calm  gaze  on  the  shining 
river,  and  saw  in  it,  perhaps,  the  River  of  Life,  "  proceed 
ing  out  of  the  throne  of  God."  After  victory  is  peace. 


XI. 


FAITHFUL    UNTO    DEATH. 

BERGAN  now  mended  rapidly ;  a  mind  and  heart  at 
ease  are  excellent  medicines.     In  a  few  days  it  was 
pronounced  safe  to  remove  him  to  Oakstead.     Here 
he  was  informed  of  the  strange  disappearance  of  Maumer 
Rue. 

"  Her  grandson,  Brick,  was  at  the  cabin  two  or  three 
times,"  said  Mr.  Bergan,  "  when  you  were  too  ill  to  allow  his 
admittance.  He  is  here  now,  and  very  anxious  to  see  you. 
May  he  come  in  ?  " 

Brick,  being  admitted,  burst  into  tears.  He  was  glad 
to  see  his  beloved  master,  but  his  heart  and  mind  were 
heavily  burdened.  When  he  had  last  seen  his  grandmother, 
she  had  told  him  that  she  was  going  on  a  long  journey, 
and  should  not  return ;  but  she  had  charged  him  solemnly 
to  say  nothing  of  this  communication  to  anybody  but  Ber 
gan  ;  who,  she  averred,  would  return  in  good  time.  Then 
he  was  to  bid  him,  in  her  name,  to  "  seek  and  find  ;  "  she 
had  added,  that  he  would  know  where  to  look. 

Bergan  started  up  with  a  face  of  alarm.  "  I  must  go 
at  once,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  am  afraid  it  is  already  too 
late  ! " 

"  But  you  are  not  strong  enough,"  remonstrated  Mr. 
Bergan.  "  Tell  us  where  to  look,  we  will  go  in  your  stead." 

"  I  would  gladly  do  so,  if  I  knew  how,"  answered 
Bergan,  "  but  I  am  not  certain  that  I  can  find  the  place  my 
self;  I  never  saw  it  but  once,  and  then  it  was  in  the  night. 
At  the  worst,  however,  we  can  cut  a  way  into  it.  Come, 
uncle;  come,  Hubert,  you  will  both  be  needed;  and  we 


51-i  IIOLDEN    WITH    THE    CORDS. 

ought  to  have  a  doctor,  too.  The  secret — for  there  is  one 
— has  long  Leon  kept,  but  it  must  needs  out  now  ;  and  it  is 
as  well  that  it  should,  the  day  of  such  things  is  over." 

The  carriage  was  ordered,  and  having  set  down  the  three 
gentlemen  at  the  Hall,  went  after  Doctor  Gerrish. 

Bergan,  meanwhile,  sought  for  the  hidden  spring.  It 
required  some  time  and  thought  before  he  found  and 
pressed  it.  The  secret  chamber  being  then  exposed  to  view, 
Rue  was  discovered  sitting  at  the  massive  secretary,  in  a 
large  arm-chair,  with  her  head  bowed  on  her  folded  hands. 
She  was  dead;  Doctor  Gerrish  affirmed  that  she  had  been  so 
for  some  days.  Ample  provision  of  food  and  water  was 
near;  she  had  died  a  perfectly  natural  and  peaceful  death, 
from  the  infirmities  of  old  age.  It  was  apparent  that  she 
had  deliberately  chosen  this  spot  for  her  death-chamber. 
But  why  ?  That  was  a  mystery. 

It  was  soon  solved.  As  they  gently  raised  the  body  to 
lay  it  on  the  same  bed  where  her  master,  and  so  many  of  his 
race  had  slept  their  last  sleep  before  her,  a  folded  paper 
dropped  from  her  clasped  hands,  and  fell  at  Bergan's  feet. 
lie  picked  it  up,  glanced  at  it,  and  laid  it  on  the  desk  without 
a  word.  There  was  that  in  his  face,  however,  which  made 
Hubert  also  look  at  it ;  and  straightway  he  held  it  up  to 
view  with  the  triumphant  exclamation  : 

"  The  lost  will,  gentlemen,  the  lost  will !  Bergan,  let 
me  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you." 

It  was  easy  to  understand  now,  that,  feeling  her  last 
hour  at  hand,  and  knowing  that  no  will  left  anywhere  in 
the  Hall,  or  in  her  own  cabin,  would  be  likely  to  escape 
Doctor  Remy's  destructive  touch,  she  had  taken  this  method 
of  fulfilling  her  master's  last  command  : 

"  See  that  Harry  has  Bergan  Hall.  Give  this  will  into 
his  own  hands,  and  no  one's  else.  I  trust  none  of  them 
but  you." 

Well  might  he  trust  her !  Almost  a  century  of  loyal 
service  had  s^o  given  to  him  and  his  house,  ready  at  any 


CONCLUSION.  515 

time,  if  need  be,  to  lay  down  her  life  for  their  sake.  Well 
might  Bergan  give  her  tender,  honorable  burial,  and  cause 
to  be  graven  deep  on  her  tombstone : 

FAITHFUL  UNTO  DEATH. 


Hubert  Arling  wooed  and  won  Coralie  Youle.  His 
strong  likeness  to  his  brother  first  found  him  favor  in  her 
eyes ;  by  and  by,  she  would  have  been  amazed  to  be  told 
that  she  had  ever  cared  for  him,  except  on  his  own  suffi 
cient  account. 

Diva  Thane  and  Astra  Lyte  went  to  Italy,  for  some 
years,  to  give  Astra's  genius  fit  food  and  training.  The 
direction  of  its  future  labors  was  settled.  She  would  spend 
her  life  and  strength  in  the  service  of  Christian  art,  trying 
to  lose  all  thought  of  self  in  that  of  consecration,  and 
counting  her  work  successful,  though  it  never  left  her  studio, 
nor  brought  her  either  money  or  fame,  if  only  it  lifted  the 
minds  of  those  who  contemplated  it  to  a  point  above  itself, 
to  a  loftier  standard  of  living,  a  clearer  conception  of  the 
beauty  of  holiness,  a  more  earnest  aspiration  after  the  glory 
that "  shall  be."  On  her  return,  she  brought  with  her  a  Saint 
Christopher  that  satisfied  even  Carice.  The  giant  was  kneel 
ing  before  the  Wondrous  Child,  who  had  at  once  so  burdened 
him,  and  so  strengthened  him  to  bear ;  his  face  was  full  of  awe 
and  love  ;  he  recognized  his  Lord;  he  had  found  the  King 
who  alone  was  worthy  of  his  service,  and  whom  alone  he  was 
content  to  serve. 

As  for  Diva,  there  are  sisters  of  charity,  who  wear  no 
distinctive  garments,  save  patience  and  faith.  A  gentleman 
once  said  to  Bergan,  admiring  her  stately  beauty,  "She 
should  be  a  queen."  "She  is  a  queen,"  was  the  quick 
reply,  "  a  queen  according  to  the  Gospel  pattern,  '  Whoso 
ever  will  be  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  your  servant.' " 

In  due  time,  Bergan  restored  the  old  Hall,  although  not 


510  IIOLDEN   WITH   THE    CORDS. 

without  reducing  somewhat  of  its  ostentatious  size  by  cut 
ting  down  the  long  wings,  and  with  no  extravagant  outlay. 
He  had  learned  that  the  inevitable,  and  probably  healthful, 
tendency  of  property  in  this  country,  is  to  division.  The 
larger  and  costlier  the  dwelling,  beyond  a  certain  extent, 
the  more  sure  it  is  to  prove  too  heavy  a  burden  for  some 
inheritor,  and  the  less  likely  to  go  down  in  a  direct  line. 
The  man  who  would  have  his  name  live,  must  link  it 
with  some  institution  more  imperishable  than  a  family  home. 
First  of  all,  therefore,  Bergan  took  care  to  embody  in  carven 
stone  and  jewelled  glass  that  fair  vision  which  he  had  seen 
on  his  first  visit  to  the  Berganton  church.  This  being 
done,  we  may  be  sure  that  his  more  personal  dreams  of 
happiness  and  honor  came  true,  also. 

A  fair  and  gracious  wife  and  mother  was  Carice  !  Sho 
never  lost  the  flower-like  grace  and  purity  of  her  girlhood, 
nor  her  rare  power  of  seeing  straight  to  the  central  truth  of 
things.  "  It  is  said  that  I  have  lost  a  year  of  my  life," 
she  once  remarked ;  "  it  is  the  year  that  I  count  most  truly 
saved." 

Richard  Causton,  having  learned,  through  his  forced 
abstinence  during  his  long,  lonely  watch  over  Bergan, 
that  existence  was  possible  without  alcoholic  stimulant,  and 
being  helped  by  Bergan's  steady  friendship  and  counte 
nance,  made  a  determined  effort  at  reformation,  and  suc 
ceeded,  though  not  without  a  sore  struggle,  and  many 
lapses.  The  last  of  his  backslidings  was  made  memorable 
by  the  following  incident. 

Going  too  near  the  edge  of  the  excavation  aforemen 
tioned,  he  slipped  and  fell  over,  displacing  some  of  the 
sand  at  the  foot  of  the  bank  by  his  weight,  which  had  also 
been  much  washed  by  a  recent  heavy  rain.  Struggling  to 
his  feet,  he  was  horrified  to  see  a  skeleton  hand  pointing  at 
him  from  the  base  of  the  precipice.  He  fied,  without  stopping 
to  look  behind  him ;  but  his  story  set  other  and  acuter  minds 
to  work,  as  well  as,  a  Iktle  later?  two  or  three  careful  spades ; 


CONCLUSION.  517 

and  the  body  of  Edmund  Roath  was  exhumed,  and  the 
mystery  of  his  disappearance  was  explained.  The  sand  had 
suddenly  caved  in,  under  his  weight,  and  buried  him,  as  he 
fell.  His  flight  had  been  short,  in  one  sense  ;  far,  very  far, 
in  another.  Had  he  witnessed  such  a  termination  to  an 
other's  career,  he  would,  doubtless,  have  termed  it  Chance, 
or  Fate ;  but  those  who  stood  around  his  dead,  shrunken 
body,  with  its  sunken  eyes  and  its  uplifted  hands,  looked 
Lwe-stricken  in  each  other's  faces,  and  solemnly  whispered, 
"  Providence."  Nevertheless,  some  simple  souls  mur 
mured  that  he  had  escaped  just  punishment.  "  Do  you 
think  so  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Islay.  "  So  would  not  he  who  said 
4  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  living 
God.'  Be  thankful,  rather,  that  justice  to  the  guilty  is  so 
tempered  with  mercy  to  the  innocent.  An  earthly  scaffold 
would  not  have  added  one  straw's  weight  to  the  despair  of 
that  miserable  soul,  when  he  stood  on  the  brink  of  death,  and 
knew  that  his  failure  was  complete  for  time  and  eternity,  but 
it  would  have  been  a  heavy  burden  to  certain  gentle  hearts. 
It  is  they  who  have  escaped,  not  he.  Where  the  cords  of 
his  sins  do  not  hold  a  man  to  a  godly  sorrow,  they  must 
needs  hold  him  to  a  righteous  retribution." 

Richard  Causton's  old  age  had  something  of  the  mellow 
sweetness  of  a  late,  frost-bitten  apple,  such  as  is  occasion 
ally  plucked  from  the  tree  in  midwinter.  He  lived  to  teach 
Bergan's  eldest  son  many  of  his  favorite  proverbs,  in  their 
many  tongues,  but  he  constantly  impressed  upon  him  that 
the  truest,  most  significant,  most  solemn  of  them  all  was 
one  from  Holy  Writ : 

"  HE     SHALL    BE     IIOLDEX    WITH    THE    CORDS    OF    HIS    SINS." 


THE    END. 


SHILOH;  Or,  WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN. 

By  W.  M.  L.  JAY.    Sixth  Thousand,  12mo,  488  pages,  S2.00. 

A  Star)  of  Common  Life;  beautifully  written,  with  quiet  Pictures  of  New  England 
Farm  and  Parisk  I  ife. 


"  A  venerable  and  beloved  brother  in  the  ministry  having  earnestly  commended 
It  to  our  reading,  we  now  desire  not  only  to  thank  him  most  heartily  for  the  pleasure 


ey  often 

purchase  a  copy  after  reading  it."  —  Gospel  Messenger. 

"  Its  value  as  a  work  of  fiction  has  been  abundantly  established.  The  struggle  cf 
good  and  evil  in  us  is  skillfully  drawn.  It  is  one  of  the  few  fictions  in  which  the 
love-story  portion  is  quite  unnecessary  for  the  majority  of  readers."  —  Church  Jour 
nal. 

"  No  praise  of  ours  can  add  to  the  reputation  it  has  already  acquired.  It  is  de 
lightful  to  get  hold  of  a  good,  bright,  thorough  Church  story,  such  as  this,  after 
tbe  dreary  trash  we  are  called  upon  to  wade  through.  It  is  a  permanent  addition 
to  our  Church  literature,  and  should  be  in  every  parish  library."  —  Pacific  Church 
man. 

"  It  is  a  sweet,  simple  story  of  New  England  country  life,  showing  what  one  ear 
nest  worker  for  Christ  and  His  Church  can  do  to  build  up  the  waste  places,  and  kindle 
into  a  flame  the  smouldering  fires  of  devotion  and  work.  A  city  girl,  from  consider 
ations  of  health,  chooses  to  spend  her  summer  at  Shiloh,  a  country  village,  rather 
than  at  Saratoga,  the  fashionable  watering-place  ;  and  this  is  the  history  of  her  life, 
as  written  to  her  distant  friend.  The  story  is  well  told  ;  the  characters  are  well  de 
lineated  ;  the  pathetic  and  the  humorous  are  skillfully  blended  ;  and  we  have  both 
laughed  and  wept  in  reading  it.  \\'e  look  forward  with  great  pleasure  to  the  future 
products  of  the  author's  pen,  and  are  very  sure  that  her  place  will  be  an  exalted 
one  among  the  writers  of  our  time."  —  Maryland  Church  Record. 

"  '  Shiloh  '  I  like  more  than  ever,  and  I  greatly  rejoice  to  see  it  in  a  permanent 
form.  It  is  an  achievement  —  a  real  one  —  to  write  to  the  times  and  to  write  as  one 
should  ;  to  write  a  story  (so  to  speak),  and  keep  up  interest  without  cheap  sensation  ; 
to  write  religious  fiction,  and  yet  to  avoid  platitudes  ;  and  all  this  you  have  done, 
and  I  congratulate  you.  Now  give  us  what  Oliver  Twist  asked  for  —  wore."  — 
Bishop  Williams,  of  Conn. 

"  I  greatly  like  the  atmospheric  infusion,  instead  of  the  disconnected  intrusion, 
of  the  religious  element,  and  the  influence  of  the  Church.  There  are  parts  of  it  I 
should  like  to  preach,  and  the  whole  book  is  far  beyond  any  story  yet  written  of,  or 
in,  the  American  Church."  —  Bishop  Doane,  of  Albany. 

"  'Shiloh'  is  a  twofold  success.  The  contention  between  Bpna  and  Mala  con 
stantly  evokes  valuable  truths  which  strike  us  in  a  quite  original  light,  and  the 
social  and  natural  features  of  rural  life  in  New  England  have  rarely  been  more  pleas 
ingly  presented.  The  style  is  really  charming,  and  pays  the  reader  the  compliment 
of  care  in  the  choice  of  epithets  and  the  arrangement  of  the  thoughts.  Like  a  well- 
bred  man,  the  author  comes  into  the  reader's  presence  in  his  best  apparel."  —  New 
York  Evening  Post. 

•'  This  is  a  book  of  decided  merit.  It  is  well  written,  and  the  authoress  gives  evi 
dence  of  unusual  descriptive  powers  .....  But  '  Shiloh  '  is  also  designed,  wo 
think,  to  make  apparent  that  no  duty  performed,  no  service  offered,  is  too  slight  to 
be  acceptable  to  God.  '  Whatever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might  ;  ' 
or,  to  use  Mrs.  Jay's  words,  '  The  sterling  usefulness  of  doing  quiet  duties  in  quiet 
ways,  unobtrusively  and  uncomplainingly,  is  one  which,  though  the  world  may  make 
little  account  of  it,  God  will  surely  bless  and  abundantly  reward."  "  —  New  York 
Herald. 

"  '  Shiloh  '  is  a  novel  with  a  purpose,  and  that,  too,  of  the  most  exalted  kind.  It 
deals  In  a  spirit  at  once  earnest  and  sincere,  with  some  of  the  deepest  problems  that 
e«u  occupy  humanity,  touching  here  and  there,  with  a  lighter  hand,  upon  social 


SHILOH  ;    OR,    WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. 

(bibles  and  individual  eccentricities.  On  the  whole, '  Shiloh  '  may  be  character!**) 
as  belonging  to  the  healthiest  type  of  modern  fiction,  and,  though  possessing  no 
claims  to  striking  originality  in  design  or  execution,  as  exhibiting  a  freshness  -f 
style  and  sentiment  that  will  commend  it  to  the  mass  of  reflective  readers."  —  New 
York  Times. 

"  We  can  award  this  book  —  what  is,  after  all,  our  highest  praise  —  a  place  among 
our  missionary  books."  —  New  York  Mail. 

"The  scene  is  laid  in  a  remote  New  England  town,  and  the  fortunes  of  a  weak 
parish  are  described.  There  is  much  cleverness  in  drawing  a  variety  of  character, 
and  some  sharp  contrasts  are  presented  just  such  as  one  often  sees  around  him.  A 
quiet,  intelligent,  and  well-founded  religious  faith  influences  to  a  life  that  abounds 
in  good  works,  and  the  story  suggests  to  readers  how  they  may  go  and  do  likewise, 
and  benefit  those  that  are  around  us.  Even  in  the  sparsely  populated  country 
there  is  ample  field  for  domestic  missionary  work,  and  if  '  Shiloh '  is  read  as  it 
should  be,  it  will  have  a  beneficial  influence  in  inciting  to  these  much-needed  la 
bors." —  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  It  has  decided  power  and  point  in  it,  and  we  design  to  make  some  large  extracts 
from  it,  to  give  our  readers  a  taste  of  its  merits."  —  New  York  Observer. 

"  Its  pictures  of  New  England  life  and  people  are  singularly  faithful.  Nothing 
could  well  be  more  affecting  than  the  story  of  Maggie  Warren's  death-bed.  The 
author  has  a  fine  artist-feeling  which  displays  itself  unostentatiously,  but  with  a 
pervading  and  delightful  presence."  —  Christian  Union. 

"  A  more  carefully  written  book  we  have  rarely  seen.  Its  composition  has  evi 
dently  been  a  labor  of  love ;  and  every  paragraph  bears  evidence  of  having  been 
writteu  with  the  care  which  only  a  man  of  leisure  and  of  earnest  thought  can  ccm- 
mand.  In  many  respects  it  is  a  remarkable  book,  and  will  amply  repay  the  readrr. 
tt  U  to  be  read  ;  not  for  the  narrative,  though  that  is  by  no  means  without  interest, 
but  as  a  storehouse  of  earnest  thought  and  valuable  suggestion."  —  The  Citizen  and 
Kound  Table. 

"  In  order  to  get  back  '  the  roses '  which  a  gay  and  tiresome  New  York  winter, 
together  with  some  hidden  heart-sorrow,  has  taken  from  her  cheeks,  the  heroine  has 
come  to  board  for  the  summer  at  a  farm-house  in  the  little  village  of  Shiloh.  And 
we  have,  in  this  book,  the  history  of  that  summer  as  she  writes  it  out  in  letters  to 
a  friend.  After  the  summer  is  ended,  she  says:  'I  came  to  it  seeking  rest.  I  got, 
first  work,  then  peace,  finally  joy.'  And  we  know,  when  we  have  read  her  letters, 
that  the  work  was  the  doing  cf  whatever  good  she  could  find  to  do  among  the  people 
with  whom  she  was  thrown  ;  that  the  peace  was  that  quietness  of  soul  which  came 
when  she  bad  gained  the  victory  over  self;  and  the  joy,  the  blessing  of  a  love  which 
she  had  thought  lost  to  her  forever.  In  closing  our  notice,  we  repeat  our  convic 
tion  of  having  been  brought  in  contact  with  a  writer  of  more  than  ordinary  power, 
with  a  deep,  thoughtful,  spiritual  nature,  which  has  imparted  to  '  Shiloh  '  so  much 
of  its  own  intensity  and  earnestness  as  cannot  fail  to  make  the  events  of  the  story 
linger  long  in  the  memory  of  the  reader,  and  their  many  lessons  help  him  very 
often  in  his  daily  living." — Boston  Daily  Adcerliser. 

"  It  is  a  sweet  book,  and  the  author  has  made  herself  a  name  by  it.  We  beg  her 
to  continue  as  she  has  begun.  There  is  a  high  seat  for  her  in  American  literature ; 
and  if  she  is  wise,  she  will  yet  occupy  it." —  Provitlence,  Press. 

"  The  style  is  singularly  simple,  clear,  and  graceful,  while  the  interest  and  variety 
of  situation,  incidents,  and  character,  are  such  as  to  secure  the  reader's  gratified  at 
tention  throughout." — Chicago  Interior. 

"  We  have  been  very  much  pleased  with  '  Shi'oh.'  It  is  written  with  power  and 
sweetness.  It  breathes  throughout,  a  tender,  pure,  and  Christian  spirit,  seldom  ob 
truded  in  the  sermonizing  fashion  ;  but  permeatiug  the  whole  book,  and  giving  it 
-what  may  be  styled,  a  moral  fragrance.  The  name  of  the  author  is  unfamiliar  to 
us,  but  unless  we  are  much  mistaken,  it  is  destined  to  become  the  name  of  a  very 
popular  author."  —  Sacramento  Record. 

Sent  by  mail,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  price 

E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co  ,  Publishers,  713  Broadway,  New  York 


MY  WINTER  IN   CUBA. 

By  W.  M.  L.  JAY.    12mo.    296  pages.    $1.50. 
[The  Churchman.} 

"The  author  has  with  rare  qualities  of  mind,  and  superior  graces  of  style,  M 
woven  together  what  she  saw  and  heard,  with  what  she  herself  evidently  felt,  that 
her  book  after  a  while  becomes  almost  fascinating.  We  see  on  every  page  evidence! 
of  a  quick  and  appreciative  enthusiasm,  and  that  aptness  at  detecting  the  relations 
between  things  which  constitutes  the  poet's  power.  Her  style  is  of  that  finished, 
flowing  kind  which  lends  outward  grace  of  form  to  the  inward  beauty  of  thought 
and  conception.  She  seems  to  know  by  instinct  what  to  say  and  how  to  say  it. 
Either  this  work  or  '  Shiloh '  would  by  itself  place  her  deservedly  in  the  first  rank 
of  American  female  writers." 

[The  Christian  Union.} 

"Our  readers  will  find  it  wonderfully  instructive  in  matters  which  every  tourist 
or  invalid  visitor  is  concerned  to  know,  they  will  enjoy  its  racy  etchings)  of  charac 
ter  and  manners,  and  they  will  be  charmed  by  the  descriptions  of  the  external 
tropical  life,  the  glory  of  air  and  sky  and  woodland,  which  is  made  vividly  real, 
because  the  stamp  of  sincerity  is  upon  every  sentence  of  the  volume." 
[The  New  York  Tribune,] 

After  giving  over  a  column  of  extracts  from  the  book,  says  :  "  We  would  gladly 
give  our  readers  a  larger  taste  of  this  charming  volume,  but  our  space  is  already 
tull,  and  we  can  only  advise  them  to  try  the  book  for  themselves.  We  are  not 
familiar  either  with  the  author's  writings  or  her  name,  and  do  not  know  whether 
It  is  her  own  talent  for  description  or  the  felicity  of  Spanish  subjects  to  which  we  are 
indebted  for  such  an  agreeable  journal  of  foreign  travel,  which  has  not  been  sur 
passed  in  its  way  since  Mr.  Milton  Mackie's  fascinating  '  Cosas  de  Kspaiia  '  " 
[The  Boston  Daily  Advertiser,] 

After  giving  nearly  a  column  of  extracts  from  the  book,  says :  "  In  conclusion  we 
must  express  ourselves  personally  indebted  to  the  author  for  her  charming  contri 
bution  to  the  literature  of  travel.  We  only  wish  that  she  <-ould  communicate  the 
secret  of  her  success  to  the  hundreds  of  prosaic  voyagers  who  are  yearly  impelled 
to  rush  into  print." 

[  Citizen  anil  Round  Table.} 

"  W.  M.  L.  Jay  is  the  author  of  that  rarest  of  works  —  and  especially  feminine 
works  —  a  really  good  religious  novel.  Much  as  we  like  1  '  Shiloh,' however,  w» 
like  '  My  Winter  in  Cuba  '  decidedly  better,  and  we  fancy  our  readers  will  agree  with 
us  in  finding  it  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  recent  records  of  travel. 

"  Mrs.  Jay  has  a  brilliant  future  before  her.  In  her  two  books  —  widely  different 
as  they  are  in  form  and  purpose  —  she  has  manifested  a  strength  and  delicacy  both 
of  thought  and  expression  that  constitute  the  rare  union  of  intellectual  excellences 
found  ouly  among  writers  of  real  genius.  She  is,  moreover,  wholly  free  from  the 
faults  of  exaggeration  and  over-ornamentation  so  characteristic  of  even  the  best 
women  writer*,  and  her  style  is  a  model  of  clear  and  eloquent  English.  W«  shall 
look  with  much  interest  for  her  next  work,  whatever  may  be  its  character.' 
[The  Providence  Press.] 

"  The  author  of  '  Shiloh  '  can  never  send  any  production  of  her  pen  to  our  tabU 
without  its  being  read  with  pleasure.  She  wields  a  graceful  pen,  keeps  an  unflag 
ging  interest  in  the  minds  of  her  readers,  and  diffuses  a  real  pleasure  by  her  easy, 
unaffected,  and  flowing  style.  We  have  read  this  book,  and  much  that  it  describe: 
have  seen  and  felt  ourself.  Cuba  is  a  charming  tropical  spot,  and  yet,  notwith 
standing  its  contiguity  to  this  country,  is  at  least  a  century  behind  the  age.  Many 
of  the  quaint  scenes  delineated  in  these  pages  brought  back  the  hearty  laugh 
we  enjoyed  over  the  original.  It  describes  Cuba  to  the  life,  and  its  correctness 
makes  it  all  the  more  entertaining.'' 

[HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN,  in  the  Soston  Transcript.] 

"  Cuba  has  been  cleverly  written  about  by  scores  of  '  gentlemen  who  write  with 
ease,'  from  the  author  of  '  Cosas  de  Espana '  to  Hurlbut  and  Dana;  but  there  ia 
always  something  valuable  to  be  gleaned  by  the  apt  and  tasteful  band  of  woman  in 
Jie  oldest  harvest-field,  whether  of  literature  or  life;  and  the  fair  author  of '  Sbiloh  ' 
has  not  only  given  us  a  charming  record  of  her  experiences  in  Cuba,  so  attractive 
that  it  has  the  freshness  and  piquancy  of  a  new  revelation,  but  combined  with  toil 
pleasing  is  the  profitable  feature  of  the  most  desirable  information  for  invalid*  " 


Just  Published  in  Two  Volumes,  Bvo,  price  $7.00. 

THE  LIFE  OF  CHRIST. 

BY  THE  REV.  F.  W.  FARRAR,  D.  D.,  F.  R.  S. 

MASTER  OF   MARLBOROUGB   COLEEGE,   AND   CHAPLAIN   IX   ORDINARY   TO   TUE   QUEEN. 


From  the  Nete    York  Erening  Post. 

"  The  book  will  be  a  prize  to  all  students  and  no  less  to  every  Christian  believer. 
It  overflows  with  information  not  easily  attainable  elsewhere,  and  for  clergymen, 
Bible-class,  and  Sunday-school  teachers,  and  all  others  who  have  to  instruct  or 
would  themselves  be  instructed,  it  will  prove  a  mine  of  stimulating  and  suggestive 
knowledge. 

"  Dr.  Farrar  has  done  in  this  work  very  much  such  a  service  to  Christian  readers 
and  thinkers  as  was  done  by  Messrs.  Conybeare  and  Howson  in  their  admirable 
'  Life  of  St.  Paul.'  Of  course  this  statement  needs  qualification.  No  human  hand 
can  draw  for  us  the  portrait  of  the  Master  with  that  grasp  and  comprehensiveness 
with  which  we  may  hope  to  see  delineated  the  lives  of  Uis  Apostles.  But  we  do 
not. believe  modern  criticism  has  yet  given  to  us  a  volume  combining  so  many  ex 
cellences  of  arrangement,  grouping,  and  detail,  such  accuracy  of  statement  and  such 
glow  of  language,  such  careful  and  extended  research,  and  such  singular  grace  and 
beauty  of  style,  as  that  which  lies  before  us  in  this  work  of  the  Master  of  Marl- 
borough  College." 

From  the  London  Times. 

"  Dr.  Farrar's  qualifications  for  this  great  work  are  in  many  respects  eminent. 
As  a  distinguished  linguist,  he  is  capable  of  appreciating,  as  few  men  can,  the  re 
sults  of  textual  criticism ;  as  an  accomplished  scholar,  he  is  familiar  with  all  the 
illustrations  which  literary  knowledge  can  bring  to  bear  on  the  subject;  while  as 
an  earnest  divine  he  is  keenly  alive  to  the  spiritual  significance  of  the  words  and 
deeds  he  Is  narrating.  He  has  done  his  utmost  to  turn  these  qualifications  to  ac 
count The  value  of  the  book,  in  reference  to  skeptical  objections,  will 

be  that  it  exhibits,  in  a  most  favorable  form,  the  aspect  which  the  life  of  Christ 
bears,  when  regarded  from  an  orthodox  point  of  view.  No  thoughtful  mind  will 
rise  from  the  peruf.-il  of  this  book  without  feeling  that  it  reveals  a  beautiful  and  an 
harmonious  conception  .  It  will  serve  to  raise  the  mind  from  mere  objections  in 
detail  to  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  whole  subject,  and  it  will  at  the  least  assist 
candid  objectors  to  do  justice  to  the  Christian  tradition.  Dr.  Farrar,  as  we  have 
seen,  assumes  the  usual  Christian  interpretation,  and  we  are  only  concerned  to  ob 
serve  that  his  book  is  tue  most  brilliant  and  learned  exposition  of  it  which  is  ac 
cessible  to  the  modern  English  reader There  is  a  great  demand  in  the 

present  day  for  books  which  will  furnish  serious  and  at  the  same  time  interesting 
matter,  and  orthodox  writers  can  render  few  better  services  to  their  faith  than  by 
presenting  its  familiar  facts  and  truths  in  forms  which  will  attract  the  perusal  of  all 
thoughtful  or  cultivated  minds.  Dr.  Farrar  s  work  is  an  eminent  example  of  an 
effort  of  this  character.  Few  who  commence  it  will  fail  to  be  carried  on  by  the  in 
terest  of  the  narrative  ;  and  we  commend  it  to  the  best  attention  of  our  readers." 

From  the  Churchman. 

"  We  find  here  a  most  striking  example  of  what  Archbishop  Whately  calls  '  the 
use  of  imagination  in  history.'  Every  event  is  pictured  with  the  skill  and  power  of 
a  true  artist.  The  real  scene  and  all  the  actors  stand  clearly  revealed  before  us. 
We  behold  what  seems  to  almost  all  minds  the  fur-off  past,  as  the  living  present 
The  thousands  of  years  and  of  miles  which  separate  us  from  the  time  and  the  land 
of  the  Historic  Gospel,  are  forgotten,  and  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  that  won 
derful,  that  beautiful  and  perfect  Life  which  the  Incarnate  One  lived  here  among 
men. 

"  The  author  has  also  embodied  this  picture-narrative  in  a  style  which  for  finish 
and  eloquence  has  seldom  been  equaled  by  any  modern  English  writer.  It  glows 
with  true  fire,  throbs  with  the  kindling  fervor  of  an  enthusiasm  which  must  touch 
and  thrill  the  heart  of  every  devout  reader." 

From  the  London  Bookseller. 

"  There  Is  no  English  work  on  the  subject  to  be  compared  with  this  book  of  Dr. 
Farrar's,  and  it  is  safe  to  predict  that,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  it  will  stand  alone  as 
the  English  Life  of  Chrift.  The  author  has  brought  to  the  fulfillment  of  his  task 
qualifications  peculiarly  fitted  for  it.  With  the  high  attainments  of  an  eminent 
scholar  and  linguist,  he  combines  the  character  of  a  great  preacher." 


E.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO.,  PUBLISHEES,  NEW  YORE, 


THE  SILENCE  AND  THE  VOICES  OF  GOD, 

WITH  OTHER  SERMONS. 

BY   THE   REV. 

FREDERICK  W.  FARRAR,  D.  D.,  F.  R.  S. 

MASTER   OF  MARLBOROUUH   COLLEGE,  AND   CHAPLAIN   IN   ORDINARY  TO  THE   QUEEN. 

American  Edition.    237  pages.    Price  only  $1.00. 


From  the  Church  Journal. 

"  Among  all  the  volumes  of  Sermons  it  has  been  our  lot  to  examine  for  many  a  long  day, 
there  are  none  equal  to  these  in  this  volume,  for  thought  and  expression.  They  are  model* 
of  gorgeous,  and  yet  chaste,  rhetoric.  The  flow  of  golden  speech  sweeps  onward  like  a  strong 
tide,  and  carries  the  reader  with  it 

"  While  such  sermons  as  these  are  preached  in  her  pulpits,  and  printed  in  her  presses,  the 
Church  of  England  can  smile  at  the  talk  of  an  '  imbecile  pulpit.' 

''  It  may  seem  extravagant  to  say  it,  but  our  readers  can  buy  and  decide  for  themselves,  that 
since  Jeremy  Taylor,  there  is  no  preacher  in  English  whose  sermons  sweep  the  heights  and 
depths  of  human  feeling  and  human  learning  like  Dr.  Farrar's." 

From  the  Christian  Union. 

"  The  book  contains  eleven  sermons,  but  it  is  from  the  first  three  that  the  title  is  derived. 
They  are  an  elaboration  and  enforcement  of  the  thought  that  the  voices  of  God  are  to  be 
heard  in  Nature,  in  the  Moral  Law,  in  Scripture  and  in  History.  The  remaining  sermons  are 
upon  such  topics  as  'Avoidance  of  Temptation,'  'Working  with  our  Might,'  'Wisdom  and 
Knowledge,'  'Pharisees  and  Publicans,'  'Too  Late,'  and  '  Prayer  the  Antidote  to  Sorrow.'  A 
tone  of  generosity  towards  opponents  in  opinion  characterizes  his  writings,  which,  moreover, 
are  pervaded  by  a  devout  and  earnest  spirituality.  As  specimens  of  pulpit  eloquence  they  are 
clear,  forcible,  and  sometimes  rich  with  a  tender  beauty  both  of  sentiment  and  phrase.7' 

From  the  Episcopal  Register. 

"  We  earnestly  recommend  those  who  would  see  some  of  the  finest  specimens  of  pulpit  elo 
quence,  to  get  this  volume  of  Dr.  Farrar's  sermons.  They  are  perfect  models,  where  there  is 
sufficient  general  culture  to  appreciate  them,  and  at  least  a  feast  for  those  who  may  not  al 
ways  find  fit  audience." 

From  thf.  Churchman. 

"  Sermons  like  these  are  worth  printing,  for  they  will  fully  repay  almost  any  amount  of  read 
ing  and  study.  They  deal  with  some  of  the  profoundest  and  yet  most  practical  questions  of  life 
and  duty.  They  are  full  of  seed  thoughts,  and  rich  with  quotations  gathered  from  the  words 
of  the  wise  in  all  ages,  and  they  are  closed  in  a  style  whose  beauty  and  eloquence  reach  that 
degree  which  may  truly  be  called  wonderful. 

"The  volume  contains  sixteen  sermons,  and  not  one  of  them  is  dull  or  ordinary.  The  first 
shows  that  although  man  is  a  mystery  to  himself  and  surrounded  by  mysteries,  there  are,  nev 
ertheless,  voices  speaking  to  him,  in  Nature,  in  Scripture,  in  the  moral  law,  and  by  the  lips  of 
the  Son  of  Man,  revealing  what  he  is,  his  duties,  his  destiny,  and  his  relations  to  a  personal, 
ever-living  Qod.  • 

"  The  second  sermon  interprets  the  Voice  of  Conscience  as  a  warning  and  aceusi^*  monitor, 
and  points  out  in  telling  words  the  danger  of  allowing  that  voice  to  become  dead  and  silent. 
The  author  then  passes  on  to  the  Voice  of  History,  and  gives  examples.of  the  fact  that  the 
fortunes  of  nations  witnesses  to  the  truth  of  what  Scripture  has  revealed.  Israel,  Athens, 
Rome,  Spain,  and  France  alike  proclaim  that  '  all  unrighteousness  is  sin,  and  that  sin  is  neces 
sarily  weakness.' 

"  We  have  marked  many  passages  for  quotation.  Paragraphs  full  of  thought,  of  power,  and 
of  true  eloquence  meet  the  eye  on  every  page." 

From  Scribner's  Monthly  Magazine. 

"  A  series  of  eleven  calm,  thoughtful  discourses  for  the  pulpit,  beautifully  written  and  sin 
gularly  interesting  to  read." 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO.,  Publishers,  713  Broadway,  N.  Y. 


MRS.  MAIN  WAKING'S  JOURNAL. 

I2mo,  358  pages,  $1.50. 

"  JIw.  Mainwaring's  Journal  is  a  success.  It  is  full  of  genuine  feeling  and  of  holy  earnest 
ness,  and  is  fitted  to  encourage  and  help  those  who  find  —  and  who  does  not  ?  —  earthly  exist 
ence  a  mingling  of  light  and  shadow."  —  Churchman. 

«  Sure  to  wake  echoes  in  the  hearts  of  all  wives  and  mothers  who  read  the  well-told  narra 
tive.''  —  Transcript. 

"A.  thoroughly  good  book,  and  one  of  the  kind  not  too  common.  It  begins  where  most 
novels  end,  at  marriage,  and  records  a  picture  of  family  life  with  rare  vividness  and  beauty. 
There  is  nothing  sensational  about  it,  but  it  is  very  interesting.  .  .  .  Good  books  treating  ot 
these  phases  of  life  are  extremely  rare,  and  it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  commend 
one  cordially."  —  Boston  Adcertiser 

"  It  is  of  the  kind  which  will  interest  thoughtful  matrons,  and  which  no  one  with  any  ex 
perience  of  life  will  hastily  despise."  —  London  Athenaeum. 

"  A  pleasant  picture  of  many  years  of  gentle  and  devout  domestic  life  in  England."  —  The 
Christian  Union. 

"  New  books  are  like  new  faces  ;  we  like  them  or  we  dislike  them  upon  a  first  impression ; 
and  from  the  very  first  look  at  the  introduction  to  this  simple  record  of  a  beautiful  life,  we 
liked  it.  There  is  nothing  either  learned  or  brilliant  about  its  simple  story  ;  but  it  is  so  nat 
ural,  so  womanly,  and  so  true,  that  like  the  simplest  poems  in  the  English  language,  it  goes 
straight  to  the  heart. —  The  Inter-Ocean —  Chicago. 

"  We  are  confident  that  if  such  a  book  as  this,  interesting  and  readable,  can  take  the  place 
of  many  of  the  novelettes,  which  occupy  so  much  time,  to  the  exclusion  of  better  works,  homes 
will  be  happier,  and  the  community  will  soon  feel  the  great  difference  in  the  cheerful  and  con 
tented  family  circles,  of  which  there  are  but  few."  —  Episcopal  Register. 

"Mrs.  Mainwaring's  journal,  though  it  traverses  but  a  small  and  common  field,  contains 
touches  of  nature  and  feeling  which  will  interest  and  win  many  a  heart  in  other  lands  than 
England.  Every  life  is  both  like  and  unlike  every  other :  even  as  every  succeeding  sunrise  la 
the  same  as  all  that  preceded  it,  yet  how  unlike,  in  many  deep  revelations  of  its  own.''  —  Hart 
ford  Daily  Times. 


A  LILY  AMONG  THORNS. 

I2mo,  337  pages,  $1.50. 

«  It  was  published  as  a  serial  in  the  Ilartford  '  Churchman,'  where  we  read  it  with  deep  and 
unflagging  interest.  Like  all  of  Mrs.  Marshall's  works,  <  A  Lily  Among  Thorns '  is  the  very 
acme  of  good  story -telling,  the  tone  being  healthy,  high,  and  clear.  Her  pictures  of  life  are 
characterized  with  great  simplicity  and  naturalness,  and  imbued  with  an  excellent  moral  tone 
which  makes  the  most  conscientious  parent  feel  perfectly  easy  in  placing  any  of  her  books  in 
the  family  library.  This,  her  latest,  is  one  of  her  best,  and  we  take  pleasure  in  commending 
it  to  our  readers." —  Lancaster  Daily  Express. 

"  This  is  a  very  touching  story,  and  shows  the  power  of  religion  to  soothe  and  strengthen  in 
hours  of  sorrow,  and  to  nerve  one  to  meet  the  most  exacting  trials  of  life.  It  is  a  story  of  love 
and  desertion,  in  which  the  supplanted  becomes  the  minister  of  good  to  the  supplantcr.  The 
characters  are  strongly  drawn,  and  the  wiiter  shows  a  masterly  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart." N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  These  books  are  so  closely  akin  in  style  of  thought,  in  purity  of  tone,  in  exquisite  refine 
ment  and  lofty  aspiration,  that  one  might  readily  guess  the  oneness  ef  their  origin  They  are 
charming  volumes,  thoroughly  domestic,  natural,  and  refined."  —  Chicago  Evening  Journal. 

"A  well-written  story  of  moral  heroism  that  novel  readers  will  find  as  instructive  as  it  ia 
certainly  attractive Boston  Transcript. 

« One  of  the  best  of  the  religious  novels  which  our  English  friends  occasionally  present  us. 
It  is  sweet  and  smooth  in  tone,  the  incidents  are  well  stated,  the  plot  is  admirably  maintained, 
and  a  fine  impression  left  upon  the  mind  at  the  close.  We  can  warmly  recommend  it  for  all 
healthful  libraries."  —  Commonwealth. 

Fur  tale  by  nil  Booksellers,  or  sent  by  mail,  postaye  paid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

E.   P.   DUTTON    &    CO.,   Publishers, 


GOOD  BOOKS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


SUNDAY  ECHOES  IN  WEEK-DAY  HOURS:  Being  a  Tale  ill  us- 
trative  of  the  Collects.  By  Mrs.  CAREY  BROCK.  Reprinted 
from  the  eighteenth  thousand  of  the  English  Edition,  with  an 
Introduction  by  the  Rt.  Rev.  J.  WILLIAMS,  D.  D.,  Bishop  of 
Connecticut.  i6mo,  $1.50. 

SUNDAY  ECHOES  IN  WEEK-DAY  HOURS.  Second  Series.  A 
Tale  illustrative  of  the  Church  Catechism.  By  Mrs.  CAREY 
BROCK.  $1.50. 

SUNDAY  ECHOES  IN  WEEK-DAY  HOURS.  Third  Series.  A 
Tale  illustrative  of  the  Journeyings  of  the  Children  of  Israel. 
By  Mrs.  CAREY  BROCK.  $1.50. 

SUNDAY  ECHOES.  Fourth  Series.  A  Tale  illustrative  of  Scrip 
ture  Characters.  $1.50. 

The  set  of  four  volumes  in  box,  $6.00. 

THE  ROSE  DALE  BOOKS.  Easy  Reading  for  the  Little  Ones 
By  Mrs.  D.  P.  SANDFORD. 

ROSE,  TOM,  AND  NED. 
IDA  AND  BABY  BELL. 
FIVE  HAPPY  CHILDREN. 

Three  volumes,  large  type,  beautifully  illustrated.     Price  re 
duced  to  $3.75. 

PUSSY  TIP-TOE'S  FAMILY.  A  Story  for  "  Our  Little  Girls  and 
Boys."  By  Mrs.  D.  P.  SANDFORD,  author  of  "  The  Rose  Dale 
Books,"  etc.  Square  I2mo,  beautifully  printed  and  bound, 
with  30  large  illustrations.  $1.75. 


E.  P.  BUTTON   &   CO.,  Publishers, 

NEW    YORK. 


GOOD  BOOKS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


COPSLEY  ANNALS      Preserved  in  Proverbs.     i6mo.     $1.00. 

SUSIE  GRANT;  or,  THE  LOST  PROPERTY  OFFICE.    By  the  au 
thor  of  "Copsley  Annals."     i6mo,  illustrated.     $1.00. 

"I  MUST  KEEP  THE  CHIMES  GOING."    A  Tale  of  Real  Life. 
By  the  author  of  "Copsley  Annals."     Illustrated.     75  cents. 

CUSHIONS  AND  CORNERS;  or,  HOLIDAYS  AT  OLD  ORCHARD. 


WINTER  AND  SUMMER  AT  BURTON  HALL  By  the  author 
of  "  Cushions  and  Corners."  i6mo,  illustrated.  $1.00. 

SCHOOL  BOY  BARONET.  By  Mrs.  GREENE,  author  of  " Cush 
ions  and  Corners."  Illustrated.  $1.25. 

FILLING  UP  THE  CHINKS.  By  Mrs.  R.  T.  GREENE,  author 
of  "  Cushions  and  Corners,"  etc.  Illustrated.  $1.00. 

SOPHIE  DANFORTH'S  SCHOOL  LIFE;  or,  SHOD  WITH  PEACE. 
By  HOPE  BUHLER.  349  pages,  3  illustrations.  $1.25. 

STORIES  ABOUT  ANIMALS.     By  the  Rev.  THOMAS  JACKSON. 

..  A  Familiar  Description  of  the  Life  and  Habits  of  the  different 
rarieties  of  the  Animal  World.  Small  4to,  236  pages,  164  illus 
trations.  $2.50. 

CHILDREN'S  MAGAZINE  FOR  1871,  1872,  1873,  and  1874. 
Beautifully  illustrated  and  bound.  Four  volumes,  each  $1.25. 


B.  P.  BUTTON   &  CO.,  Publishers, 

NEW    YORK. 


BY  MRS.  ROBERT  O'REILLY. 


IT  is  with  sincere  pleasure  that  we  recommend  her  books  to 
all  lovers  of  good  stories  for  children,  feeling  sure  that  they  will 
carry  their  own  welcome  with  them. 


STORIES  THEY  TELL  ME;  or,  SUE  AND  I.     Six  beautiful  illus 
trations.    $1.50. 

GILES'S  MINORITY;  or,  SCENES  AT  THE  RED  HOUSE.    Illus 
trated.    $1.25. 

DAISY'S  COMPANIONS  ;  or,  SCENES  FROM  CHILD  LIFE.   i6mo. 
Eight  illustrations.     $1.25. 

DEBORAH'S  DRAWER.     i6mo.     Seven  illustrations.     $1.25. 

DOLL  WORLD;  or,  PLAY  AND  EARNEST.     i6mo.    Seven  illus 
trations.    $1.25. 

"  We  need  not  go  into  particulars  to  praise  these  volumes,  be 
cause  we  can  unhesitatingly  say  that  for  reality,  truth  to  nature, 
hearty  interest,  and  amusement,  but  very  few  books  for  children 
can  be  mentioned  with  them." 


THE  DOLL  WORLD   LIBRARY. 

DOLL  WORLD. 

DAISY'S  COMPANIONS. 

DEBORAH'S  DRAWER. 

Three  volumes  in  box,  $3.00. 

"  Three  of  the  sweetest  little  books  we  ever  read,  —  bright,  re 
fined,  and  full  of  the  very  spirit  of  childlife,  with  its  charming  illu 
sions,  its  anxious  cares  over  the  toy  menage,  and  the  immense 
responsibilities  of  the  proper  education  of  dolls.  We  are  sure 
that  no  more  acceptable  gift  could  be  made  to  a  little  girl  than 
the  neat  box  containing  the  three  volumes  of  this  series." 


B.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

NEW    YORK. 


E.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO., 

Church  Publishers,  Booksellers,  &  Importers, 


AGENTS    FOR   THE 


GENERAL  PROTESTANT  EPISCOPAL  SUNDAY  SCHOOL 
UNION  AND  CHURCH  BOOK  SOCIETY, 

No.  713  BROADWAY, 
Cor.  "Washington  Place,  NEW  YORK, 

INVITE     ATTENTION     TO     THEIR     LARGE     ASSORTMENT   OF 

CHURCH     BOOKS, 


Clergymen's  Libraries, 

Parish  Libraries, 

Sunday  ScJiool  Libraries, 

Sunday  School  Instruction. 

Beside  their  own,  and  the  Publications  of  The  Church  Book  Sc- 
ciety,  they  keep  all  the  prominent  books  of  other  Church  Publishers, 
and  receive  promptly  all  the  latest  issues  from  the  English  Press. 
They  also  have  always  on  hand,  a  large  assortment  of  the  best 
Oxford,  London,  and  American  editions  of 

Bibles,  Prayer  Books,  and  Hymnals, 

From  the  richest  bindings  to  the  cheapest  for  Missionary  use. 
Sets  of  Books   for  Churches,   bound  to  order  in   any   style. 


In  many  sections  of  the  country  there  are  no  booksellers  who  keep  our 
books  on  hand,  and  therefore  many  Libraries  of  Episcopal  Sunday 
Schools  contain  books  anything  but  Churchly  in  their  teaching  and  in 
fluence.  All  about  to  replenish  their  Libraries  are  invited  to  confer 
directly  with  us,  and  we  can  refer  them  to  those  in  their  vicinity  who 
Keen  our  books,  or  we  will  furnish  them  ourselves  at  the  lowest  prices. 
Catalogues  fent  free  on  application. 

The  usual  discount  to  the  Clergy,  or  any  of  our  Publications  sent 
FREE,  by  mail,  on  receipt  of  the  Retail  Price. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS3354  .W8h 


Woodruff  - 
335U  Holden  with  the 
cords 


L  009  544  543  3 


PS 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


••      •     ••      ii  i      ••     II     II     III      ||        | 

AA    001  228  597  9 


